

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 


ChapJuZ-3 Copyright No, 


UNITED STATES OF AMERICA, 




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OF COn q^ < ^\ 
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OCT 1 1888 / 

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l 4 & 16 VESEY ST flEW YORK 


A TRI-WEEKLY PUBLICATION OF THE I! 
'BEST CURRENT AMD STANDARD LLTER^Tl/Rtl 


( &) % 






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dlers - JAMES PYLE, New York. 



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VEGETABLE COMPOUND 

IS A POSITIVE CURE 

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It will cure entirely the worst form of Female 
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"* Lydia E. Pinkham’s Vegetable Compound is prepared at Lynn, Mass. Price, $1.00. 
Six bottles for $5.00. Sent by mail in the form of Pills, also in the form of Lozenges, on receipt 
of price, $1.00 per box, for either. Send for pamphlet. All letters of inquiry promptly an- 
swered. Address as above. 


LOVELL’S LIBRARY 


COMPLETE CATALOGUE BY AUTHORS. 

Lovell’s Library now contains the complete writings of most of the best standar4 
authors, such as Dickens, Thackeray, Eliot, Carlyle, Ruskin, Scott, Lytton, Black, etc., 
etc. 

Each number is issued in neat 12mo form, and the type will be found larger, and tha 
paper better, than in any other cheap series published. 

JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY, 

P. O. Box 1992. 14: and 1G Vesey Street, New York. 


Note.— Where no numbers are given the volumes are published in “ Munro’s Library ” 
only, the publication of which series is continued by the publishers of “ Lovell’s Library.” 


BY AUTHOR OF “ ADDIE’S HUS- 


BAND ” 

110G Jessie 20 

Addie's Husband 20 

BY G. M. ADAM AND A. E. 
WETHERALD 

846 An Algonquin Maiden 20 

BY MAX ADELER 

5 Random Shots 20 

c*5 Elbow Room. 20 

BY GUSTAVE AIMARD 

560 The Adventurers 10 

567 The Trail-Hunter 10 

573 Pearl of the Andes 10 

1011 Pirates of the Prairies 10 

1021 The Trapper’s Daughter 10 

1032 The Tiger S’ayer 10 

1045 Trappers of Arkansas 10 

1052 Border Rifles I 'J 

1063 The Freebooters 10 

1069 The White Scalper 10 

1071 Guide of the Desert 10 

1075 The Insurgent Chief 10 

1079 The Flying Horseman 10 

1081 Last of the Ancas 10 

10S6 Missouri Outlaws 10 

10S9 Prairie Flower 10 

1098 Indian Scout 10 

1101 Stronghand 10 

1103 Bee Hunters 10 

1107 Stoneheart 10 

1112 Queen of the Savannah 10 

1115 The Buccaneer Chief 10 

1118 The Smuggler Hero .10 

1121 The Rebel Chief 10 

1127 The Gold Seekers 10 

1188 Indian Chief 10 

1138 Red Track 10 

1145 The Treasure of Pearls 10 

1150 Rod River Half Breed 10 

BY MRS. ALDERDICE 

346 An Interesting Case 20 

BY GRANT ALLEN 

For Maimie’s Sake 20 

BY HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN 

419 Fairy Tales 20 

BY G. W. APPLETON 

A Terrible Legacy 20 


BY MRS. ALEXANDER 

62 The Wooing O’t, 2 Parts, each 15 

99 The Admiral’s Ward .20 

209 The Executor 20 

349 Valerie's Fate 10 

664 At Bay 10 

746 Beaton’s Bargain 20 

777 A Second Life 20 

799 Maid, Wife, or Widow 10 

840 By Woman's Wit 20 

995 Which Shall it ^e? 20 

1044 Forging the Fetters 10 

1105 Mona's Choice 20 

1142 A Life Interest 20 

Look Before You Leap 20 

T he Heritage of Langdale 20 

Ralph Wilton’s Weird 10 

BY F. ANSTEY 

30 Vice Versa; or, A Lesson to Fathers. .20 

394 The Giant’s Robe 20 

453 Black Poodle, and Other Tales 20 

616 The Tinted Venus 15 

7.55 A Fallen Idol 20 

BY THE DUKE OF ARGYLE 

1175 The Reign of Law 25 

BY AUTHOR OF “ THE BELLE OF 
THE FAMILY,” ETC. 

The Gambler’s Wife 20 

PY THE AUTHOR OF “ FOR 
MOTHER’S SAKE ” 

Leonie 20 

BY THE AUTHOR OF “ LEON- 
ETTE’S SECRET ” 

Pauline 20 

BY T. S. ARTHUR 

496 Woman’s Trials 20 

507 The Two Wives 15 

518 Married Life 15 

538 The Ways of Providence 15 

545 Home Scenes .15 

554 Stories for Parents 15 

563 Seed-Time and Harvest 15 

568 Words for the Wise .15 

574 Stories for Young Housekeepers 15 

579 Lessons in Life 15 

582 Off-Hand Sketches 15 

585 Tried and Tempted 15 


LIBRAKY, 


LOVELL’S 

BY THOMAS CABLYLE 

486 History of French Revolution, 2 


Parts, each 25 

494 Past and Present 20 

500 The Diamond Necklace ; and Mira- 

beau 20 

503 Chartism 20 

608 Sartor Resartus 20 

614 Early Kings of Norway 20 

520 Jean Paul Friedrich Richter JO 

522 Goethe, and Miscellaneous Essays. . .10 

525 Life of Heyne . 15 

628 Voltaire and Novalis 15 

511 Heroes, and Hero-Worship 20 

546 Signs of the Times 15 

550 German Literature 15 

561 Portraits of John Knox 15 

571 Count Cagliostro, etc . . 15 

578 Frederick the Great, Vol. I 20 

580 " 44 Vol. II 20 

691 44 44 44 Vol. Ill 20 

61 0 4 4 4 4 44 Vol. IV 20 

619 41 44 44 Vol. V 20 

622 44 44 44 Vol. VI 20 

626 44 44 44 Vol. VII 20 

628 44 44 44 Vol. VIII 20 

680 Life of John Sterling 20 

633 Latter-Day Pamphlets 20 

636 Life of Schiller 20 

613 Oliver Cromwell, Vol. 1 25 

646 44 44 Vol. II 25 

649 44 44 Vol. Ill 25 

652 Characteristics and other Essays. . . 15 
656 Corn Law Rhymes and other Essays . 1 5 
658 Baillie the Covenanter and other Es- 
says 15 

661 Dr. Francia and other Essays 15 

10S8 Wilhelm Meister’s Apprenticeship, 

O Pq vfo pqn]^ 20 

1090 Wilhelm Meister’s Travels ! .* ! * .’ ! ! . # .*20 

BY “ CAVENDISH” 

422 Cavendish Card Essays . .15 

BY CERVANTES 

417 Don Quixote ... 30 

BY L. W. CHAMPNEY 

119 Bourbon Lilies 20 

BY VICTOR CHERBTJLIEZ 

242 Samuel Brohl &i Co 20 

BY MRS. C. CLARKE 

More True Than Truthful 20 

BY REV. JAS. FREEMAN CLARK 

167 Anti-Slavery Days 20 

BY CRISTABEL E. COLERIDGE 

5038 A Near Relation 20 

BY S. T. COLERIDGE 

528 Poems .30 

BY B. COLLENSIE 

A Double Marriage .20 

BY BERTHA M. CLAY 

183 Her Mother’s Sin 20 

277 Dora Thorne 20 

287 Beyond Pardon 20 

420 A broken Wedding-Ring.... 20 

423 Repented at Leisure 20 


Sunshine and Roses 20 

The Earl’s Atonement 20 

A Woman’s Temptation 20 

Love Works Wonders .20 

Fair but False # .10 

Between Two Sins 10 

At War with Herself 15 

Hilda 10 

Her Martyrdom 20 

Lord Lynn’s Choice 10 

The Shadow of a Sin 10 

Wedded and Parted 10 

In Cupid’s Net 10 

Lady Darner’s Secret ..20 

A Gilded Sin 10 

Between Two Loves 20 

For Another’s Sin 20 

Romance of a Young Girl 20 

A Queen Amongst Women 10 

A Golden Dawn 10 

Like no Other Love 10 

A Bitter Atonement 20 

Evelyn’s Folly 20 

Set in Diamonds 20 

A Fair Mystery 20 

Thorns and Orange Blossoms 10 

Romance of a Black Veil .10 

Love's Warfare 10 

Madolin’s Lover 20 

From Out t\. <31oom 20 

Which Loved Him Best 10 

A True Magdalen 20 

The Sin of a Lifetime 20 

Prim ^Charlie’s Daughter 10 

A Golden Heart 10 

Wife in Name Only 20 

A Woman’s Error 20 

Marjorie 20 

A Wilful Maid 20 

Lady Castlemaine’s Divorce 20 

Claribel’s Love Story 20 

Thrown on the World 20 

Under a Shadow .20 

A Struggle for a Ring 20 

Hilary’s Folly 20 

A Haunted Life 20 

A Woman’s Love Story 20 

A Woman’s War 20 

'Twixt Smile and Tear 20 

Lady Diana’s Pride 20 

Belle of Lynn 20 

Marjorie's Fate 20 

Sweet Cymbeline 20 

Redeemed by Love 20 

The Squire's Darling 10 

The Mystery of Colde Fell 20 

On Her Wedding Morn 10 

The Shattered Idol 10 

Letty Leigh 10 

The Mystery of the Holly Tree 10 

The Earl’s Error 10 

Arnold’s Promise 10 

An Unnatural Bondage 10 

The Duke’s Secret 20 

Diana’s Discipline 20 

Golden Gate 20 

His Wife’s Judgment 20 

A Guiding S*ar 20 

A Rose in Thorns ............ 20 

A Thorn in Her Heart # ..... .20 

A Nameless Secret 20 

A Mad Love 2(1 


458 

465 

474 

476 

558 

593 

651 

669 

689 

692 

694 

695 

700 

701 

718 

720 

727 

730 

733 

738 

739 

740 

744 

752 

764 

800 

801 

803 

804 

806 

807 

808 

809 

810 

811 

812 

815 

896 

922 

923 

926 

928 

929 

930 

932 

933 

934 

969 

984 

9S5 

986 

988 

989 

1007 

1012 

1013 

1030 

1031 

1033 

1041 

1042 

1043 

1051 

1064 


Novell’s library 


BY MABEL COLLINS 


Lord Vanecourt’s Daughter 20 

The Prettiest Woman in Warsaw . . .50 

BY WILKIE COLLINS 

8 The Moonstone. Part 1 10 

9 The Moonstone, Part II 10 

24 The New Magdalen 20 

87 H cart and Science 20 

418 “I Say No” 20 

437 Tales of Two Idle Apprentices 15 

6S3 The Ghost’s Touch 10 

686 My Lady’s Money 10 

722 The Evil Genius 20 

839 The Guilty River 10 

957 The 'Dead Secret 20 

996 The Queen of Hearts 20 

1003 The Haunted Hotel 10 

1176 The Legacy of Cain 20 

BY HUGH CONWAY 

429 Called Back 15 

462 Dark Days 15 

612 Carriston’s Gift 10 

617 Paul Vargas: a Mystery 10 

631 A Family Affair 20 

667 Story of a Sculptor 10 

672 Slings and Arrows 10 

715 A Cardinal Sin 20 

745 Living or Dead 20 

750 Somebody’s Story 10 

968 Bound by a Spell 20 

All in One 20 

A Dead Man’s Face 10 

BY J. FENIMORE COOPER 

6 The Last of the Mohicans 20 

53 The Spy 20 

365 The Pathfinder 20 

378 Homeward Bound 20 

441 Homo as Found 20 

463 The Deerslaycr 30 

467 The Prairie 20 

471 The Pioneer 25 

484 Th« Two Admirals 20 

488 The Water- Witch 20 

491 The Red Rover 20 

501 The Pilot 20 

506 Wing and Wing 20 

512 Wyandotte 20 

617 Heidenmauer 20 

519 The Headsman 20 

524 The Bravo 20 

527 Lionel Lincoln 20 

629 Wept of Wish -ton- Wish 20 

532 Afloat and Ashore 20 

539 Miles Wal linsrford 20 

543 TheMonikins 20 

518 Mercedes of Castile 20 

553 The Sea Lions 20 

559 The Crater 20 

562 Oak Openings 20 

570 Satan stoe 20 

576 The Chain-Bearer 20 

587 Ways of the Hour 20 

601 Precaution 20 

603 Redskins 25 

611 Jack Tier* 20 

BY C. H. W. COOK 

1099 The True Solution of the Labor 
Question 10 


BY KINAHAN CORNWALLIS 


409 Adrilt with a Vengeance 2B 

BY THE COUNTESS” 

The World Between Them 20 

A Passion Flower 20 

BY GEORGIANA M. CRAIK 

1006 A Daughter of the People 20 

BY MADAME AUGUSTE CRAVEN 

Flcurange 20 

BY R. CRISWELL 

350 Grandfather Lickshingle 20 

BY B. M. CROKER 

Pretty Miss Neville 20 

BY MAY CROMMELIN 

Goblin Gold 10 

BY S. C. CUMBERLAND 

The Rabbi's Spell 10 

BY MRS. DALE 

Fair and False 20 

Behind the Silver Veil 20 

BY R. H. DANA, JR. 

4G4 Two Years before the Mast 20 

BY DANTE 

345 Dante’s Vision of Hell, Purgatory, 

and Paradise 20 

BY FLORA A. DARLING 

260 Mrs. Darling’s War Letters 20 

BY JOYCE DARRELL 

315 Winifred Power 20 

BY ALPHONSE DAUDET * 

478 Tartarin of Tarascon 20 

(504 Sidonie 20 

613 Jack 20 

615 The Little Good-for-Nothing 20 

645 The Nabob 26 

Sappho 10 

BY REV. C. II. DAVIES, D.D. 

453 Mystic London 20 

BY V ARINA ANNE DAVIS 


1166 An Irish Knight of the 19th Century.25 

BY THE DEAN OF ST. PAUL’S 


431 Life of Spenser 10 

BY C. DEBANS 

475 A Sheep in Wolf’s Clothing .20 

John Bull’s Misfortunes 10 

BY REV. C. F. DEEMS, D.D. 

704 Evolution 20 

BY DANIEL DEFOE 

428 Robinson Crusoe 25 

BY A. D’ENNERY 

The Two Orphans 20 

The Wife’s Sacrifice 10 


7 


LOVELL’S LIBRARY. 


BY THOS. DE QUINCEY 


20 The Spanish Nun 10 

1070 Confessions of an English Opium 
Eater 20 

EY CARL DETLEF 

29 Irene; or, The Lonely Manor 20 

BY CHARLES DICKENS 

30 Oliver Twist 20 

38 A Tale of Two Cities 20 

75 Child’s History of England 20 

91 Pickwick Papers, 2 I' arts, each 20 

140 The Cricket on the Hearth 10 

144 Old Curiosity Shop, 2 Parts, each... 15 

150 Barnaby Budge, 2 Parts, each 15 

158 David Copperfield, 2 Parts, each. . . .20 

170 Hard Times... 20 

192 Great Expectations 20 

201 Martin Chuzzlewit, 2 Parts, each 20 

210 American Notes 20 

219 Dombey and Son, 2 Parts, each 20 

223 Little Dorrit, 2 Parts, each. 20 

228 Our Mutual Friend, 2 Parts, each... 20 

231 Nicholas Nickleby, 2 Parts, each 20 

234 Pictures from Italy 15 

237 The Boy at Mugby 10 

244 Bleak House, 2 Parts, each 20 

246 Sketches of the Young Couples 10 

261 Master Humphrey’s Clock 10 

267 The Haunted House, etc 10 

270 The Mudfog Papers, etc 10 

273 Sketches by Boz 20 

274 A Christmas Carol, etc 15 

282 U ncommercial Traveller 20 

2S8 Somebody’s Luggage, etc 10 

293 The Battle of Life, etc 10 

297 Mystery of Edwin Drood 20 

298 Reprinted Pieces 20 

302 No Thoroughfare 15 

437 Tales of Two Idle Apprentices 10 

BENJAMIN DISRAELI’S WORKS 

Loth air 20 

The Young Duke 20 

Tancrei ; or, The New Crusade. » ..20 

Miriam Alroy 20 

Henrietta Temple 20 

Coningsby 20 

Sybil ; or, The Two Nations 20 

Venetia 20 

Endymion 20 

Contarina Fleming. 20 

Vivian Gray, Part 1 20 

Vivian Gray, Part II 20 

The Rise of Iskander and Other 

Tales 20 

Lord Beaconsfield’s Life and Corre- 
spondence 10 

BY WILLIAM DODSON 

A Choice of Chance 20 

BY PROF. DOWDEN 

404 Life of Southey 10 

BY EDMUND DOWNEY 

1126 A House of Pears : 20 

In One Town... 20 

BY EDITH S. DREWRY 

Baptized with a Curse 20 


BY JOHN DRYDEN 

498 Poems 36 

BY F. DU BOISGOBEY 

1018 The Condemned Door 20 

1080 The Blue Veil; or, The Crime of 

the Tower 20 

1120 The Matapan Affair 20 

1146 The Detective's Eye 10 

1148 The Red Lottery Ticket 10 

1156 The Severed Hand 20 

1171 A Fight for a Fortune 20 

1172 Bertha’s Secret 20 

1174 The Results of a Duel 20 

The Parisian Detective 20 

BY THE “DUCHESS” 

58 Portia 20 

76 Molly Bawn 20 

78 Phyllis., 20 

86 Monica 10 

90 Mrs. Geoffrey 20 

92 Airy Fairy Lilian 20 

126 Loys, Lord Bercsford 20 

132 Moonshine and Marguerites 10 

162 Faith .and Un faith 20 

168 Beauty’s Daughters 20 

284 Rossmoyne 20 

451 Doris 20 

477 A Week in Killarney 10 

530 In Durance Vile 10 

618 Dick’s Sweetheart ; or, 4fc O Tender 

Dolores ” 20 

621 A Maiden all Forlorn 10 

624 A Passive Crime 10 

721 Lady Branksmere 20 

735 A Mental Struggle 20 

737 The Haunted Chamber 10 

792 Her Week's Amusement 10 

802 Lady Valworth's Diamonds 20 

1065 A Modern Circe 20 

1072 The Duchess .20 

1136 Marvel 20 

BY LORD DUFFERIN 

95 Letters from High Latitudes 20 

BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS 

761 Count of M^nte Cristo, Part 1 20 

761 Count of Monte Cristo, Part II 20 

775 The Three Guardsmen 20 

786 Twenty Years After 20 

884 The Son of Monte Cristo, Pait I. ..20 

884 The Son of Monte Cristo, Part II.. .20 

885 Monte Cristo and His Wife .20 

891 Countess of Monte Cristo, Part I... 20 
891 Countess of M nte Cristo, Part II... 20 
998 Beau Tancr de 20 

BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS, JR. 

992 Camille 10 

Annette 20 

BY 5I0STYN BL-E.WAED 

For Better. For Worse 20 

Sweet as a Rose 20 

AMELIA B. EDWARDS’ WORKS 

Barbara's History 20 

Miss Cavew 20 

My Brother’s Wife 20 

Hand and Glove 2l : 


8 


lovell’s library. 


BY MRS. ANNIE EDWARDS 


•81 A G-irton Girl 20 

Jet; Her Face or Her Fortune 10 

A Ballroom Repentance .20 

A Point of Honor 20 

Ought We to Visit Her 20 

Leah : A Woman of Fashion .20 

Archie Lovell 20 

A Blue Stocking .... 10 

Susan Fielding 20 

A Vagabond Heroine 10 

Philip Earnscliffe 20 

Vivian the Beauty 10 

Steven Lawrence 20 

A Playwright's Daughter 10 

BY GEORGE ELIOT 

50 Adam Bede, 2 Parts, each 15 

60 A mos 1 larton ..10 

71 Silas Marner 10 

70 Romola, 2 Parts, each 15 

140 Janet’s Repentance 10 

151 Felix Holt 20 

174 Middlemarch, 2 Parts, each 20 

195 Daniel Deronda, 2 Parts, each 20 

202 Theophrastus Such 10 

205 The Spanish Gypsy.and other Poems20 

207 The Mill on the Floss, 2 Parts, each. 15 

208 Brother Jacob, < tc. 10 

374 Essays, and Leaves from a Note- 

Book. 20 

BY RALPH WALDO EMERSON 

373 Essays, First Series 20 

1107 Essays, Second Series 20 

EVA EVERGREEN’S WORKS 

Ten Years of His Life 20 

Agatha 20 

BY KATE EYRE 

A Step in the Dark 20 

ENGLISH MEN OF LETTERS. 
EDITED BY JOHN MORLEY 

848 Bunyan, by J. A. Fronde 10 

407 Burke, by John Morley 10 

334 Burns, by Principal Shairp 10 

347 Byron, by Professor Nichol 10 

413 Chaucer, by Prof. A. W. Ward 10 

424 Cowper, by Goldwin Smith 10 

377 Defoe, by William Minto 10 

383 Gibbon, by J. C. Morrison 10 

225 Goldsmith, by William Black 10 

369 Hume, by Professor Huxley 10 

401 Johnson, by Leslie Stephen 10 

3S0 Locke, by Thomas Fowler 10 

392 Milton, by Mark Pattison 10 

398 Pope, by Leslie Stephen 10 

364 Scott, by R. H. Ilutton 10 

361 Shelley, by J. Syraonds 10 

404 Southey, by Professor Dowden. ...10 
431 Spenser, by the Dean of St. Paul’s. .10 
344 Thackeray, by Anthony Trollope. ..10 
410 Wordsworth* by F. Myers 10 

BY OLIVE P. FAIRCHILD 

A Struggle for Love 20 

BY HARRIET FARLEY 

173 Christmas Stories 20 


BY B. L. FARJEON 

243 Gautran; or, House of White Shad- 


ows 2d 

654 Love's Harvest 20 

874 Nine of Hearts 2(1 

The Sacred Nugget 20 

Grif 20 

Aunt Parker 20 

A Secret Inheritance 20 

BY J. M. FARRAR 

Life of Mary Anderson 19 

BY F. W. FARRAR, D.D. 

1 0 Seekers after God 20 

60 Early Days of Christianity, 2 Parts, 

each 20 

BY GEORGE MANNVILLE FENN 

1004 This Mans Wife 20 

1060 The Bag of Diamonds .20 

1129 The Story of Antony Grace 20 

1132 One Maid's Mischief . . . . : 20 

The Dark House 10 

BY OCTAVE FEUILLET 

41 A Marriage in High Life 20 

987 Romance of a Poor Young Man .... 10 

Led Astra}', adapted by Helen M. 
Lewis 20 

GERALDINE FLEMING’S WORKS 

False .20 

A Sinless Crime 20 

Leola Dale’s Fortune 20 

Who Was the Heir? 20 

Only a Girl’s Love 20 

Countess Isabel 10 

How He Won Her 20 

Sunshine and Gloom 20 

A Sister's Sacrifice 20 

A Terrible Secret 20 

Slaves of the Ring 20 

Entranped 20 

$5,000 Reward 20 

Wild Margaret 20 

LAURA C. FORD’S WORKS 

Enemies Born 20 

Electra 20 

For Honor’s Sake 20 

Daisy Darrell 20 

BY GERTRUDE FORDE 

1162 Only n Coral Girl 20 

In the Old l’nlstzzo ...20 

EY MRS. FORRESTER 

760 Fair Women ..20 

S18 Once Again 20 

843 My Lord and My Lady 20 

844 Dolores 20 

850 My Hero 20 

859 Viva 20 

860 Omnia Vanitas 10 

961 D } ana Carew 20 

862 From Olympus to Hades 20 

863 Rhona 20 

864 Roy and Viola 20 

865 June 20 

866 Mignon 20 

867 A Young Man's Fancy 2 (f 


9 


LIBRARY. 


LOVELL’S 


BY FRIEDRICH. BARON DE LA 


MOTTE FOUQUE 

711 Undine 10 

BY THOMAS FOWLER 

380 Life of Locke 10 

BY FRANCESCA 

177 The Story of Ida 10 

BY R. E. FRANCILLON 

319 A Real Queen 20 

856 Golden Bells 10 

BY ALBERT FRANKLYN 

122 Ameline de Bourg 15 

BY L. VIRGINIA FRENCH 

4S5 My Roses 20 

BY J. A. FROUDE 

348 Life of Banyan 10 

BY EMILE GABORIAB 

114 Monsieur Lecoq, 2 Parts, each 20 

116 The Lerouge Case 20 

120 Other People’s Money 20 

129 In Peril of His Life 20 

138 The Gilded Clique 20 

155 Mystery of Orcival 20 

101 Promise of Marriage 10 

258 File No 113 20 

1119 The Little Old. Man of the Bati- 

gr.olles 20 

1123 The Count’s Millions, Part 1 20 

“ “ Part II 20 

1152 The Slaves of Paris, Part 1 20 

“ “ “ Part II 20 

BY HENRY GEORGE 

52 Progress and Poverty 20 

300 Land Question 10 

393 Social Problems 20 

796 Property in Land 15 

BY CHARLES GIBBON 

67 The Golden Shaft 20 

Amovet 20 

ANNIE A. GIBBS’ WORKS 

Irene 20 

The Waif of the Storm 20 

The Forced Marriage 20 

A Blighted Life 20 

A Cruel Woman 20 

Her Father's S n 20 

BY THEODORE GIFT 

Pretty Miss Bellew 20 

BY W. S. GILBERT 

The Mikado and other Operas 20 

BY WEXONA GILMAN 

Oui 20 

Stella, the Star 20 

“General Utility” 20 

BY J. W. VON GOETHE 

342 Goethe's Faust 20 

343 Goethe’s Poems 20 

1088 Wilhelm Meister’s Apprenticeship, 

2 Parts, each 20 

1090 Wilhelm Meister’s Travels 20 


BY IDA LINN GIRARD 

A Dangerous Game. . . . II 

BY NIKOLAI V. GOGOL 

1016 Taras Bulba 2Q 

BY OLIVER GOLDSMITH 

51 Vicar of Wakefield 10 

362 Plays and Poems 20 

BY MRS. GORE 

89 The Dean’s Daughter 20 

BY MISS GRANT 

The Sun Maid 20 

BY JAMES GRANT 

49 The Secret Despatch 20 

ANNABEL GRAY’S WORKS 

What Love Will Do 10 

Tembly Tempted 10 

EVELYN GRAY’S WORKS 

A Woman’s Fault 20 

As Fate Would Have It 20 

BY HENRI GREVILLE 

1C01 Frankley £D 

IY HENRY GREVILLE 

Wild Oats 20 

BY MRS. GREY 

The Flirt 20 

BY CECIL GRIFFITH 

732 Victory Deane 20 

BY ARTHUR GRIFFITHS 

709 No. 99 10 

THE BROTHERS GRIMM 

221 Fairy Tales, Illustrated 20 

BY IAURENCE GRONLUND 

1096 The Co-operative Common wealth.. 30 

BY GUINEVERE 

Little Jewell 20 

BY LIEUT. J. W. GUNNISON 

440 History of the Mormons 15 

BY F. W. KACKLANDER 

606 Forbidden Fruit 20 

BY ERNST HAECKEL 

97 India and Ceylon 20 

BY H. RIDER HAGGARD 

813 King Solomon’s Mines 20 

848 She 20 

876 The Witch’s Head 20 

900 Jess 20 

941 Dawn 20 

1020 Allan Quatermain 20 

1100 Tale of Three Lions 10 

BY A. EGMONT HAKE 

371 The Story of Chinese Gordon 20 

BY LUDOVIC HALEVY 

15 L’Abbc Constantin 20 

10 


lovell’s 


WORKS BY THE AUTHOR OF 
“HE,” “IT,” ETC. 

“ He,” a companion to “ She” 20 

“It” 20 

“Pa” 2u 

“Ma” 20 

King Solomon’s Wives 20 

King Solomon's Treasures 20 

‘ ‘ Bess,” a companion to “ Jess ” 20 

MARY GRACE KALPINE’S WORKS 

A Girl Hero 20 

A Letter 20 

Discarded 20 

A Strange Betrothal 20 

His Brother's Widow . .20 

A Wife’s Crime 20 

The Young School-Teacher 20 

A Great Divorce Case 20 

A Curious Disappearance 20 

The Divorced Wife 20 

Blind Elsie’s Crime 20 

Wronged 20 

BY GEORGE HALSE 

Weeping Ferry 20 

EY THOMAS HARDY 

43 Two on a Tower 20 

157 Romantic Adventures of a Milk- 
maid 10 

749 The Mayor of Casterbridge 20 

956 The Woodlanders 20 

964 Far from the Madding Crowd 20 


BY MARION HARLAND 

107 Housekeeping and llomemaking.. . .15 

BY JOHN HARRISON AND M. 


COMPTON 

414 Over the Summer Sea 20 

BY J. B. HARWOOD 

269 One False, both Fair 20 

BY JOSEPH HATTON 

7 Clytie 20- 

137 Cruel London 20 

1147 The Abbey Murder 20 

The Great World 20 

BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 

370 Twice Told Tales 20 

376 Grandfather's Chair 20 

BY MARY CECIL HAY 

466 Under the Will 10 

566 The Arundel Motto 20 

590 Old Mvddleton’s Money 20 

787 A Wicked Girl 10 

971 Nora's Love Te=t 20 

972 The Squire’s Legacy 20 

973 Dorothy’s Venture 20 

974 My First Offer 10 

975 Back to the Old Home 10 

976 For Her Dear Sake 20 

977 Hidden Perils 20 

978 Victor and Vanquished 20 

1029 Brenda Yorke 10 

BY MRS. FELICIA HEMANS 

183 Poems 30 


LIBRARY. 

EY DAVID J. HILL, LL.D. 

533 Principles and Fallacies of Social- 


ism ia 

BY M. L. HOLBROOK, M.D. 

356 Hygiene of the Brain 25 

MRS. CASHEL HGEY’S WORKS 

The Lover's Creed 20 

A Stern Chase 20 

MRS. H. C. HOFFMAN’S WORKS 

A Treacherous Woman 20 

Mamed by the Mayor 20 

A Harvest of Thorns 20 

Laughing Eyes 20 

Married at M dnight 20 

Lost to the World 20 

Love Conquer* Pride 20 

A Miserable Woman 20 

A Sister’s Vengeance 20 

Leah’s Mistake 20 

A Tom-Boy 20 

Broken Vows 20 

BY MRS. M. A. HOLMES 

709 Woman against Woman 20 

743 A Woman’s Vengeance 20 

BY PAXTON HOOD 

73 Life of Cromwell 15 

BY THOMAS HOOD 

511 Poems 30 

BY TIGHE HOPKINS 

’Twixc Love and Duty 20 

BY AEAEELLA M. HOPKINSON 

Life’s Fitful Fever 20 

WORKS BY THE AUTHOR OF 
“ HIS WEDDED WIFE ” 

His Wedded Wife 20 

A Great Mistake 20 

A Fatal Dower 20 

Barbara 20 

BY HORRY AND WEEMS 

36 Life of Marion 20 

BY ROEERT IIOUDIN 

14 The Tricks of the Greeks 20 

BY ADAH M. HOWARD 

970 Against Her Will 20 

993 The Child Wife 10 

A Woman’s Atonement 20 

Irene Gray’s Legacy 20 

Sundered Hearts 20 

Doubly Wronged \ 20 

Uncle Ned’s Cabin 20 

A Blighted Home 10 

A Mother’s Mistake 20 

A Haunted Life 20 

A Desperate Woman 20 

Lit'le Nana 20 

By Mutual Consent 20 

Little Madeline .*. 20 

Little Sunshine 2 Q 

BY MARIE HOWLAND 

534 Papa’s Own Girl 30 


LOVELL’S LIBRARY. 


BY EDWARD HOWLAND 

742 Social Solutions, Part I 10 

747 “ “ Part II 10 

753 “ “ Partlll 10 

702 “ “ Part IV 10 

705 “ “ PartV 10 

774 “ “ Part VI... 10 

77 8 “ “ Part VII 10 

782 “ “ Part VIII 10 

785 “ :•* Part IX 10 

788 “ “ Part X 10 

791 “ “ Part XI 10 

795 “ “ Part XII 10 

BY JOHN W. HOYT, LL.D. 

535 Studies in Civil Service 15 

BY THOMAS HUGHES 

61 Tom Brown’s School Days 20 

180 Tom Brown at Oxford, 2 Parts, eaejt. 15 

BY VICTOR HUGO 

784 Les Miserables, Part 1 20 

781 “ “ Part II 20 

784 “ « Part III 20 

BY STANLEY HUNTLEY 

109 The Spoopendyke Papers 20 

BY R. H. HUTTON 

864 Life of Scott 20 

BY FROF. HUXLEY 

869 Life of Hume 10 

BY COL. PRENTISS INGRAHAM 

The Rival Cousins 20 

BY WASHINGTON IRVING 

147 The Sketch Book 20 

1 98 Tales of a Traveller 20 

199 Life and Voyages of Columbus, 

Part I 20 

Life and Voyages of Columbus, 

Part II 20 

224 Abbotsford and Newstead Abbey .. .10 

236 Knickerbocker History of New York. 20 

219 The Crayon Papers .20 

263 The Alhambra 15 

272 Conquest of Granada 20 

279 Conquest of Spain 10 

281 Braoebridge Hall 20 

290 Salmagundi 20 

299 Astoria 20 

301 Spanish Voyages 20 

305 A Tour on the Prairies 10 

308 Life of Mahomet, 2 Parts, each 15 

310 Oliver Goldsmith 20 

311 Captain Bonneville. 20 

314 Mnorish Chronicles 10 

321 Wolfert’s Roost a '>4 Miscellanies 10 

G. F. R JAMES’ WORKS 

Agnes Sorel 20 

Darnley 20 

BY HARRIET JAY 

17 The Dark Colleen 20 

BY EDWARD JENKINS 

The Secret of Her Life 20 

BY EVELYN K. JOHNSON 

Tangles Unraveled 20 


BY SAMUEL JOHNSON 

44 Rasselas 10 

BY MAURICE JOKAI 

754 A Modern Midas 20 

BY MRS. EMMA GARRISON JONES 

A Terrible Crime 20 

BY JOHN KEATS 

531 Poems 25 

BY EDWARD KELLOGG 

111 Labor and Capital 2ft 

BY GRACE KENNEDY 

106 Dunallan, 2 Parts, each 15 

BY JOHN P. KENNEDY 

67 Horse-Shoe Robinson, 2 Parcs, each .15 

BY CHARLES KINGSLEY 

39 The Hermits 20 

64 Hypatia, 2 Parts, each .15 

BY HENRY KINGSLEY 

726 Austin Eliot 20 

728 The Hillyars and Burtons 20 

731 Leighton Court 20 

736 Geoffrey Humlyn 30 

BY W. K. G. KINGSTON 

254 Peter the Whaler 20 

322 Mark Sea worth 20 

324 Round the World 20 

335 The Young Foresters 20 

337 Salt Water 20 

833 The Midshipman 20 

BY F. KIRBY 

454 The Golden Dog {Le cl den d'or) 40 

BY ANDREW LANG 

The Mark of Cain 10 

BY A. LA POINTS 

445 The Rival Doctors 21) 

BY MISS MARGARET LEE 

25 Divorce 20 

600 A Brighton Night 20 

725 Dr. Wilmer’s Love 25 

741 Lorimer and Wife 20 

BY VERNON LEE 

797 A Phantom Lover 10 

798 Prince of the Hundred Soups 10 

BY MRS. LEITH- AD AMS 

Aunt Hepsy’s Foundling 20 

BY JULES LERMINA 

469 The Chase 20 

BY CHARLES LEVER 

327 Harry Lorreqner 20 

789 Charles O’Malley. 2 Parts, each 20 

794 Tom Burke of Ours, 2 Parts, each.. 20 

BY LAURA JEAN LIBBEY 

A Fatal Wooing 20 

BY MARY LINSKILL 

A Lost Son 10 


13 


LOVELL'S LIBRARY 


BY H. W. LONGFELLOW 


1 Hyperion 20 

2 Outre-Mer 20 

482 Poems 20 

BY SAMUEL LOVER 

163 The Happy Man 10 

719 llory O'More 20 

849 Handy Andy 20 


BY COMMANDER LOVETT-CAM- 
ERON. 

817 The Cruise of the Black Prince. . . .20 

BY MRS. H. LOVETT-CAMERON 


927 Pure Gold 20 

BY SIR JOHN LUBBOCK 

1154 The Pleasures of Life 20 

BY HENRY W. LUCY 

96 Gidecn Fleyce 20 

BY HENRY C. LUKENS 

131 Jets and Flashes 20 

BY EDNA LYALL 

962 Knights-Errant 20 

BY E. LYNN LYNTON 

275 lone Stewart 20 

BY LORD LYTTON 

11 The Coming Race 10 

12 Leila .10 

31 Ernest Maltravers 20 

32 The Haunted House 10 

45 Alice : A Sequel to Ernest Maltra- 
vers 20 

55 A Strange Story 20 

59 Last Days of Pompeii 20 

81 Zanoni 20 

84 Night and Morning, 2 Parts, each. 15 

117 Paul Clifford 20 

121 Lady of Lyons 10 

128 Money 10 

152 Richelieu It 

100 Rienzi, 2 Parts, each 15 

176 Pelham 20 

204 Eugene Aram 20 

222 The Disowned 20 

240 Kenelm Chillingly 20 

245 What Will He Do with It ? 2 Parts, 

each 20 

2 17 Pevereux 20 

250 The Caxtons, 2 Parts, each 15 

253 Lucretia 20 

255 Last of the Barons. 2 Parts, each . . .15 

259 The Parisians. 2 Parts, each 20 

271 My Novel. 3 Parts, each 20 

276 Harold, 2 Parts, each 15 

289 Godolphin 20 

294 Pilgrims of the Rhine 15 

317 Pausanias 15 

BY LORD MACAULAY 

333 Lays of Ancient Rome 20 

BY CHARLES MACKAY 

1137 The Twin Soul 20 

BY KATHERINE S. MACQUOID 

898 Joan Wentworth 20 

Marjorie 20 , 


13 


BY J. F. MALLOY 

1139 A Modern Magician 20 

BY E. MARLITT 

771 The Old Mam’selle's Secret 20 

1053 Gold Elsie 20 

BY G. MARNELL 

Merit versus Money 20 

BY CAPTAIN MARRYAT 

212 The Privateersman ..20 

BY FLORENCE MARRYAT. 

903 The Master Passion 20 

904 A Lucky Disappointment 10 

905 Her Lord and Master 20 

906 My Own Child *0 

907 No Intentions 20 

908 Written in Fire 20 

909 A Little Stepson 10 

910 With Cupid’s Eyes 20 

931 Why Not? 20 

937 My Sister the Actress 20 

938 Captain Norton's Diary 10 

939 Girls of Fevorsham ... .20 

940 The Root of all Evil 20 

9 i2 Facing the Footlights 20 

943 Pctronel 20 

944 A Star and a Heart 10 

945 Ange 20 

946 A Harvest of Wild Oats 20 

917 The Poison of A*ps 10 

948 Fair-Haired Alda. 20 

919 The Heir Presumptive 20 

950 Under the Lilies and Roses 20 

951 Heart of Jane Warner 20 

952 Love's Conliict, Part I 20 

952 Love’s Conflict, Part II 20 

953 Phyllida 20 

954 Out of His Reckoning 10 

979 Her World against a Lie 20 

990 Open Sesame 20 

991 Mad Punmresq 20 

999 Fighting the Air 20 

Peeress and Player 20 

Driven to Bay 20 


The Confessions of Gerald E;>tcourt..20 

BY C. MARTIN 

The Russians at the Gates of Herat.. 10 

BY MRS. HERBERT MARTIN 


For a Dream’s Sake 20 

Amor Vi ncit 20 

BY HARRIET MARTIN2AU 

353 Tales of the French Revolution 15 

351 Loom and Lugger 20 

367 Berkeley the Banker 20 

358 Homes Abroad 15 

‘163 For Each and For All. 15 

372 Hill and Valley 15 

379 The Charmed Sea 15 

388 Life in the Wilds 15 

395 Sowers not Reapers 15 

400 Glen of the Echoes 15 

OWEN MAR ST ON’S WORKS 

Beauty’s Marriage 20 

A Dark Marriage Morn 20 

Lover and Husband 20 


LOVELLS LIBRARY 


BY HELEN MATHERS 

165 Eyre’s Acquittal 10 

1046 Cornin' Thro’ the Rye 20 

1047 Sam’s Sweetheart 20 

1048 Story of a Sin 20 

1049 Cherry Ripe 20 

1050 My Lady Green Sleeves 20 

Pound Out 20 

BY A. MATHEY 

46 DukeofKandos 20 

60 The Two Duchesses 20 

BY W. S. MAYO 

70 The Berber 20 

BY C. MAXWELL 

A Story of Three Sisters 20 

by louise McCarthy 

Gabrielle 20 

by j. h. McCarthy 

115 An Outline of Irish History 10 

by justin McCarthy, m.p. 

278 Maid of Athens 20 

BY T. L. MEADE 

328 How It All Came Round 20 

BY OWEN MEREDITH 

331 Lucile 20 

BY PAUL MERRITT 

Daughters of Eve 20 

MRS. ALEX. McVEIGH MILLER’S 
WORKS 

A Dreadful Temptation 20 

The Bride of the Tomb 20 

An Old Man’s Darling 20 

Queenie’s Terrible Secret 20 

Jaquelina 20 

Little Golden's Daughter 20 

The Rose and the Lily 20 

Countess Yera 20 

Bonnie Dora 20 

Guy Kenmore’s Wife 20 

BY JOHN MILTON 

389 Paradise Lost 20 

1092 Poems .,35 

BY WILLIAM MINTO 

£77 Life of Defoe 1.0 

The Crack of Doom 20 

BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 


1008 Marrying and Giving in Marriage . .10 

BY SUSANNA HOODIE 


1067 Geoffrey Moncton 30 

1068 Flora Lyndsay 20 

1074 Roughing it in the Bush 20 

1076 Life in the Backwoods 20 

1085 Life in the Clearings 20 

BY THOMAS MOORE 

416 Lalla Rookh 20 

487 Poems 40 

BY JOHN MORLEY 

407 Life of Burke 10 


14 


BY J. C. MORRISON 

383 Life of Gibbon 1(5 

BY EDWARD H. MOTT 

139 Pike County Folks 20 

BY ALAN MUIR 

312 Golden Girls 20 

BY LOUISA MUHLEACH 

1000 Frederick the Great and his Court. .30 

1014 The Daughter of an Empress 30 

1 054 Goethe and Schiller 30 

1091 Queen Hortense 30 

BY MAX MULLER 

130 India: What Can It Teach Us? 20 

BY MISS MULOCK 

33 John Halifax 20 

435 Miss Tommy 15 

751 King Arthur 20 

Young Mrs. Jardine 20 

Two Marriages 20 

BY DAVID CHRISTIE MURRAY 

197 By the Gate of the Sea 15 

758 Cynic Fortune : 10 

1116 One Traveller Returns 20 

The Way of the World 20 

Rainbow Gold 20 

First Person Singular 20 

Hearts 20 

A Life’s Atonement 20 

Val Strange 20 

Aunt Rachel 10 

BY F. MYERS 

410 Life of Wordsworth 10 

BY FLORENCE NEELY 

564 Hand -Book for the Kitchen 20 

BY REV. R. H. NEWTON 

83 Right and Wrong Uses of the Bible. .20 

BY JOHN NICHOL 

347 Life of Byron 10 

BY JAMES R. NICHOLS, M.D. 

375 Science at Home 20 

BY MILTON NOBLES 

The Phoenix 20 

BY W. E. NORRIS 

108 No New Thing 20 

592 That Terrible Man 10 

779 My Friend Jim 10 

BY CHRISTOPHER NORTH 

439. Noctes Ambrosian® 30 

BY F. E. M. NOTLEY 

1095 From the Other Side 20 

BY WM. O’BRIEN 

O’Hara’s Mission 20 

BY NANNIE P. O’DONOGHUE 

Unfairly Won 20 

BY ALICE O’HANLON 

A Diamond in the Rough 20 


S 


LOVELL’S LIBRARY. 


BY GEORGE OHNET 


Claire and the Forge-Master 20 

BY LAURENCE OLIPHANT 

196 Altiora Peto 20 

BY MRS. OLIPHANT 

121 The Ladies Li ndorcs 20 

179 The Little Pilgrim 10 

175 Sir Tom 20 

826 The Wizard’s Son 25 

368 Old Lady Mary 1U 

60S Oliver's Bride 10 

717 A Country Gentleman 20 

881 The Son of his Father 20 

920 J ohn : a Love Story ... 20 

925 A Poor Gentleman 20 

994 Lncy Crofton 10 

The Minister's Wife 20 

Greatest Heiress in England 20 

A House Divided Against Itself ... .20 

Effie Ogilvie 20 

Margaret Maitland 20 

BY MAX O’RELL 

336 John Bull and His Island 20 

459 John Bull and His Daughters 20 

John Bull’s Neighbor 10 

D. O’SULLIVAN’S WORKS 

414 O’Eriscoll of Darra 20 

415 P’amed Fontenoy 20 

416 A Strange Case .20 

417 Mary Mavourneen 20 

418 The Lion of Limerick 20 

419 The Beauty of Ben burb 20 

420 The Maid of Cremona 20 

421 Eviction 2 1 

502 Eileen Alanna 20 

504 Robert Emmet 20 

BY OUIDA 

112 Wanda. 2 Parts, each 15 

127 Under Two Flags, 2 Parts, each.... 20 

387 Princess Napraxine 25 

675 A Rainy June 10 

763 Moths 20 

790 Othinar 20 

805 A House Party 10 

852 Friendship 20 

853 In Maremma 20 

854 Signa 20 

855 Pascarel 20 

Friendship 20 

Puck, Part 1 20 

Puck, Part II 20 

Tricotrin, Parti 20 

Tricotrin, Part II 20 

Chandos, Part 1 20 

Chandos, Part II 20 

BY ALBERT K. OWEN 

655 Integral Co-operation 30 

BY JAMES PAYN 

187 Thicker than Water 20 

330 The Canon’s Ward 20 

659 Luck of the Darrells 20 

1135 A Prince of the Blood 20 

Kit ; A Memory 20 

One of the Family 20 

The Heir of the Ages 20 


BY LOUISA PARR 

42 Robin M 

BY MARK PATTISON 

392 Life of Milton 10 

BY HENRY PETERSON 

1015 Pemberton 30 

BY ALFRED R. PHILLIPS 

Faust; a Wierd Story 10 

BY F. C. PHILLIPS 

1082 Strange Adventures of Lucy Smith .20 

1088 As in a Looking Glass 2tJ 

1084 The Dean and his Daughter 20 

1097 Jack and Three Jills 20 

A Lucky Young Woman 20 

Social Vicissitudes 20 

BY W. PHILLIP 

The Wentworth Mystery 20 

BY C. L. PIRKIS 

A Dateless Bargain 20 

BY EDGAR ALLAN POE 

403 Poems 20 

426 Narrative of A. Gordon Pym 15 

432 Gold Bug, and Other Tales 15 

438 The Assignation, and Other Tales. .15 
447 The Murders in the Rue Morgue 15 

BY WILLIAM POLE, F.R.S. 

406 The Theory of the Modern Scien- 
tific Game of Whist 15 

BY ALEXANDER POPE 

391 Horner’s Odyssey 20 

396 Homer’s Iliad 30 

457 Poems 30 

BY JANE PORTER 

189 Scottish Chiefs, Part 1 20 

Scottish Chiefs, Part II .20 

382 Thaddeus of Warsaw 25 

BY C. F. POST AND FRED. C. 
LEUBUCHER 

838 The George-Hewitt Campaign 20 

BY ADELAIDE A. PROCTER 

339 Poems 20 

BY AGNES RAY 

1010 Mrs. Gregory 20 

BY CHARLES READE 

28 Singlehcart and Doubleface 10 

415 A Perilous Secret 20 

759 Foul Play 20 

773 Put Yoiu-self in his Place 20 

ftl3 Griffith Gaunt 20 

914 A Terrible Temptation 20 

915 Very Hard Cash 20 

916 It is Never Too Late to Mend 20 

917 The Knightsbridge Mystery 10 

918 A Woman Hater 20 

919 ltcadiana 10 

BY REBECCA FERGUS REDD 

16 Freckles 20 

408 The Brierfield Tragedy 20 

BY HON. JOHN H. RICE 

1177 Mexico, our Neighbor 25 


lovell’s library. 


BY MRS. J. H. RIDDELL 


1134 The Nun's Curse ..20 

Susan Drummond 20 

BY “RITA” 

556 Dame Durden 20 

509 Like Dian's Kiss 20 

1144 Two Bad Blue Eyes 20 

11 19 After Long Grief and Pain 20 

1151 My Lady Coquette 20 

1153 Vivienne 20 

1155 Countess Daphne 20 

1158 Faustine 20 

1161 Fragoletta 20 

1173 My Lord Conceit 20 

1179 A Sinless Secret 10 

BY SIB II- ROBERTS 

101 Harry Holbrooke 20 

BY G. M. ROBINS 

Keep My Secret 20 

BY A- M. F. ROBINSON 

134 Arden 15 


F. W. ROBINSON’S WORKS 

The Man She Cared For 20 

The Courting of Mary Smith 20 

A Fair Maid 20 

99 Dark Street, and Miss Gascoigne, by 

Mrs. Riddell 20 


BY REGINA MARIA ROCHE 


411 Children of the Abbey 30 

BY JOHN BUSKIN 

497 Sesame and Lilies 10 

505 Crown of Wild Olives 10 

510* Ethics of the Bust 10 

516 Queen of the Air 10 

621 Seven Lamps of Architecture 20 

637 Lectures on Architecture and Paint- 
ing . .15 

542 Stones of Venice, 3 Vols., each 25 

565 Modern Painters, Vol. 1 20 

572 44 Vol. II 20 

577 44 44 Vol. Ill 20 

539 44 44 Vol. IV 25 

60S 44 4 4 Vol. V 25 

698 King of the Golden River .10 

623 U n to tb is Last 10 

627 Munera Pulveris 15 

637 44 A Joy Forever 11 15 

639 The Pleasures of England 10 

642 The Two Paths 20 

644 Lectures on Art 15 

647 Aratra Pentelici 15 

650 Time and Tide 15 

665 Mornings in Florence 15 

668 St. Mark’s Rest 15 

670 Deucalion 15 

673 Art of England 15 

676 Eagle’s Nest 15 

679 44 Our Fathers Have Told Us”... . . .15 

682 Proserpina 15 

685 Val d'Amo 15 

683 Love’s Meinie 15 

707 Fors Clavigera, Part 1 30 

708 44 44 Part 1 1 30 

713 44 44 Part III 30 

714 44 44 Partly 30 


ROLLIN’ S ANCIENT HISTORY. 


1108 Volume 1 2(1 

1111 “ II 20 

1114 44 III 20 

1117 44 IV 20 

1122 44 V ...20 

1125 44 VI 20 

1128 44 VII 20 

1131 44 VIII 20 

BY BLANCHE ROOSEVELT 

837 Marked 4 * In Haste ” 26 

BY DANTE ROSSETTI 

329 Poems ....20 

BY MRS. ROWSON 

159 Charlotte Temple 10 

BY W. CLARK RUSSELL 

123 A Sea Queen 20 

399 John Holdsworth .20 

833 A Voyage to the Cape 20 

834 Jack’s Courtship 20 

835 A Sailor’s Sweetheart 20 

836 On the Fo’k’sle Head 20 

997 The Golden Hope 20 

1087 The Frozen Pirate 20 

BY DORA RUSSELL 

816 The Broken Seal 20 

BY B. DE ST. PIERRE 

37 Paul and Virginia 10 

BY G. A. SALA 

Dead Men Tell no Talcs, but Live 
Men do 20 

BY GEORGE SAND 

135 The Tower of Percemont 20 

965 The Liiies of Florence 20 

BY J. X. B. SAINTINE 

710 Picciola 10 

BY MRS. W. A. SAVILLE 

27 Social Etiquette 15 

BY JOHN SAUNDERS 

Robbing Peter to Pay Paul 20 

BY DR. E. J. SCHELLHOUS 

1094 The New Republic 30 

BY J. C. F. VON SCHILLER 

341 Schiller’s Poems 20 

BY MICHAEL SCOTT 

171 Tom Cringle’s Log 20 

BY EUGENE SCRIBE 

22 Fleurette 20 

BY ADELINE SERGEANT 

Beyond Recall 10 

Jacobi’s Wife 20 

BY PRINCIPAL SHAIRP 

334 Life of Burns Id 

BY FLORA L. SHAW 

A Sea Change 20 

BY MARY W. SHELLEY 

5 Frankenstein 10 


16 


A Mere Child 


AUTHOR 





L. B. WALFORD 

i* 

OF “MR. SMITH,” u THE BABY’S GRANDMOTHER,” ETC. 


0 


NEW YORK 

JOHN \V. LOVELL COMPANY 

14 and 16 Vesey Street 





PART I.— JERRY. 


But, then, your odd endearing ways, 

What study e’er could catch them ? 

Your pretty gestures, endless plays, 

What canvas e’er could match them ? 

Your lively leap of merriment. 

Your murmur or petition, 

Your serious silence of content, 

Your laugh of recognition. 

Here were a puzzling toil indeed 
For Art’s most fine creations. 

Grow on, sweet baby ; we will need 
To note your transformations 

Hereafter, when revolving years 
Have made you tall and twenty, 

And brought you blended hopes and fears, 
And sighs, and slaves in plenty. 







































♦ 

* 




* 

























n ’ 



















































































































A MERE CHILD 


CHAPTER I. 

THE HEIRESS AT FIFTEEN. 

Thy steps are dancing toward the bound 
Between the child and woman ; 

And thoughts and feelings more profound, 

And other years are coming. 

“ No, really, Jerry, I cannot have it. No, my dear 
child, you really are^this really is more than I can put 
up with. I have overlooked a great deal, for, of course, 
this is an out-of-the-way place, and dress is not of much 
consequence here; but you seem to have no conscience in 
the matter. And really, for a great girl of fifteen to be 
going about such a figure — why, who, seeing you to-day, 
would ever dream of taking you for a young gentle- 
woman ? They would take you for a fisherman’s daugh- 
ter — nay, for the fisherman himself. I should not be in 
the least surprised if anybody meeting you going about 
&s you are now were to take you for one of the fisher- 
men of the village !” 

This suggestion was, sooth to say, not altogether un- 
merited. 

“Jerry** — a fond granddame’s abbreviation for the 
more elegant “Geraldine” — had, for convenience sake, 
inserted her brisk, healthy young person into an ancient 
yellow oil-skin fishing-coat, which completely covered 


6 


A MERE CHILD . 


every feminine garment underneath, and the collar of 
which, standing up round her ears, was lost beneath the 
shade of one of those seafaring glazed caps known as 
“ sou’westers,” whose long flap behind would obviously 
ward off the severest wetting. 

With bare hands plunged deeply in capacious pockets, 
and a pair of the stoutest boots which the village boot- 
maker — a man accustomed to make for ploughboys and 
fishermen — could produce (for none but these would 
have pleased his present customer) — the daughter of an 
ancient house, and sole heiress to a large estate, present- 
ed an appearance which, it must frankly be confessed, 
was liable to confuse the mind of any ordinary beholder. 

“ It really is too much, quite too much,” murmured 
Geraldine’s grandmother, in the piteous accents of weak 
disapproval common to those who have long since found 
their tyrants. “ I really ought not to allow it ; I know 
I ought not.” 

Jerry’s eyes twinkled. 

“ Whoever sees you,” began the old lady again — but 
time was passing, and it was necessary this should be 
put a stop to. 

“ Who is there to see me ?” cried the defaulter, merrily. 
“I say ‘ Who ? ’ and Echo answers ‘ Who ? ’ Now, my 
dear granny, you had best say * Who ’ yourself, and let 
me be off — there’s a dear.” 

“ How can you tell whom you may meet ?” 

“ But I never do meet anyone.” 

u That’s not to say you never may. And for you, 
a young lady, my granddaughter, to be marching all over 
the place ” 

“ Oh, dear, I never thought of marching. Not but 
what I could march finely in this nice, comfortable coat,” 
shaking herself anew into it, “ but there’s this difficulty, 
that there’s no road where I am going, and one can hard- 


A MERE CHILD. 


7 


1 y march through peat-bog and birchen-wood. Oh, we 
are only going to fish the burn, and I never meant to be 
seen at all, not even by you, granny. I had been going 
to slip out by the side door, and scuttle along by the 
garden wall, only that I had left my rod and line in the 
window here, and you were such a tiresome, mischievous 
old granny, that you popped out upon me before I 
could escape. It was a shabby thing to do, dear, it was 
indeed” — and the “sou’wester” wagged from side to 
side reproachfully. 

“ You madcap thing! ” 

“Oh, madcap thing,” quoth Jerry, philosophically; 
“you often told me that, you know. And if these clothes 

keep me from getting wet ” 

“ Clothes ! my dear child, call things by their right 

names. This sail-cloth and oil-skin ” 

“ Well, this sail-cloth and oil-skin. If it keeps me from 

getting a cold and sore throat ” 

“ Oh, if you must go out in the rain, it is certainly 
better not to run the risk of getting a cold and sore 
throat. But it is really high time for you to give up this 

sort of thing, Jerry. A young lady like you ” 

“Ought to be sitting perked up on the great drawing- 
room sofa, winding skeins of worsted, or scribbling over 
yards of music paper,” cried Jerry, with indignant con- 
tempt. “ No, thank you, dear, not as long as I can help 
it. And I do not believe you will ever turn me into a 
young lady of that sort even if I should live to be a 
hundred, or a thousand,” added she, still more energet- 
ically. “ As if I could sit down, and yawn beside the 
fire in that great hot drawing-room this glorious after- 
noon, when the waterfalls are crashing over the rocks, 
and the big trout below will be all on the alert, and it is 
but throwing a line to have them bouncing after you ! 
Oh, I couldn’t do it, I really could not do it, if I tried 


8 


A MERE *CHJLD. 


ever so. And, what’s more, you would be sorry for me 
if I did, Madam Granny; and then I know how it would 
be ; you would relent just too late, and never, never, 
never forgive yourself for the cruelty of it. So there — 
kiss and be friends — and don’t keep me one other single 
second, there’s a dear, good, kind granny.” 

“ You will not go far, dear child ?” 

“Far? Not I. I have no need to go far. Cannot 
you hear them ? Why, the falls have been roaring ever 
since noon, with the spate from the hills in the night ; 
but it is no use fishing till they have gone down a lit- 
tle ; they will be just in trim now — at least the pools 
will ” 

“Those deep pools ! ” 

“ I’ll take care — I will indeed, dear,” touched by the 
sigh which, while it betokened the close of the contest, 
also appealed to the generosity of the conqueror. “ You 
don’t know how careful I am,” protested Jerry, earnestly. 

“ You are not going alone ? ” 

“ Donald goes with me, of course.” 

“Well, Donald is something ,” conceded her grand- 
mother, ruefully. She could not say “ somebody,” for 
she could hardly recognize a person in the ragged, bare- 
footed, twelve-year-old brat, who was Geraldine’s self- 
constituted attendant out-of-doors ; but she could allow 
that the presence of a cat-like creature, with eyes to 
dart, and long supple arms to catch, and a high yelling 
voice to shout, was at best better than absolute solitude. 
“ Donald is something” she said ; “ why, he is not here ?” 

“ He is here. He has been waiting for me down at 
the white bridge for ages -and ages. He must think I 
am never coming. Oh, Donald and I will be all right, 
never you fear; and we shall bring you ill such a basket 
of beauties — and see, the rain has stopped and there is 
the blue sky overhead — and look, look, such a glorious 


A MERE CHILD. 


9 


stream of light has broken out over the water! Oh, you 
will never stop in the house yourself now ; you must get 
out at once — this very minute. Send for Jane, and 
bundle on your things; and — ‘ I’m off, I’m off, and awa’, 
over the hills and far awa’, tra-la, tra-la, tra-la,”’ and 
bang went the huge oak door, as with the joyous whoop 
of a school-boy, and the pace of a whirlwind, away flew 
Miss Geraldine Campbell of Inchmarew, the greatest 
heiress in the length and breadth of Argyll. 

Mrs. Campbell stood still for a moment ere she turned 
and re-entered the deserted drawing-room. 

“ She is only fifteen,” she murmured, in a tone little 
resembling that in which the “ great girl of fifteen ” had 
been exhorted to better ways. “ Only fifteen, and there 
are yet three full years before she need be presented to 
the world. But what if she goes on as she is doing now ? 
No, she will not, she must not. No, we shall see a 
change ere then. She will tone down, soften, grow less 
wild and careless, improve in shape. At present she is all 
arms and legs, and though she carries it off well, still her 
figure is that of a child — a fine, growing child. She will 
be tall presently, every few months there is a difference. 
Her waist is too large — but waists are large at her age. 
I wonder if I am partial, but it seems to me the child 
needs nothing that time will not bestow upon her. 
Such a complexion — such a color! Fairness itself, with- 
out a trace of freckle or sunburn, though she runs in and 
out hatless half the time. But this moist climate is cer- 
tainly a most charming cosmetic ; and Geraldine is right, 
little as she thinks or cares about it, when she eschews 
the house, and the warm rooms, and spends her life in the 
fresh air. Sitting over a fire would be the wreck of her 
bloom ; and as for her shape and carriage, not one of her 
cousins, with all their gymnasiums and riding-masters 
and dancing-masters, can show such a straight back and 


IO 


A MERE CHILD. 


open chest, and walk with such an elastic, springing step, 
as my Geraldine. After her own fashion, my child is 
grace itself ; and if only she would not overdo it, and 
would not make herself such a guy — but, however, I 
suppose she really will meet nobody, and the servants 
must be accustomed to her ways by this time — and she 
is a dear child, and would obey in an instant if I serious- 
ly desired her to do anything, so why should I thwart 
her in a trifle ? After all, I need not mind what her 
aunts say. My own daughters ! I brought them up 
without any help from themselves, so surely I may be 
trusted with my grandchild. Charlotte is jealous, and 
always was ; and Maria would like to have had poor Di- 
armid’s daughter to bring up herself. And really, con- 
sidering that I was both able and willing to undertake 
the charge, she need not have wished to see me laid on 
the shelf quite so soon ! ” And the old lady drew her- 
self up, and bridled, although she was alone, and no one 
could have the benefit. 

She was not really old, being only a little over sixty, 
and was still handsome, cheerful, humorous, overflowing 
with energy, and with an acknowledged zest for neigh- 
borly intercourse, pleasant scenes, summer galas, and 
winter dinner-parties. Above all, however, did she 
affect the London season on the flowery, showery May- 
days, when the lustre is yet upon it ; when the azaleas 
and hyacinths in the parks are still more brilliant than 
the many-tinted throngs around them, when the shop 
windows are gayest, and the roar of the wheels is loudest, 
and even the dingiest, dustiest alleys in the background 
put out their little flower-pots, and make a feint of en- 
joying life. It was the thought of all this, and the pros- 
pect of some day returning to take her part in it, which, 
more than any matronly anxiety, occasionally found vent 
in remonstrances such as those with which our chapter 


A MERE CHILD . 


II 


opens; it was the determination that in due time the 
young heiress should be by all the world admired, 
honored, and perchance envied, which made her every 
now and then discontented with the humble pleasures 
and modest aspirations of her darling. 

For Jerry hated the very idea of London. She had 
never been there — vowed she never would go there. 

What did she want with a dirty, smoky old town, with 
nothing but rows of houses, shrieking underground 
trains, rattling omnibuses, and every kind of horror ? 

Oh, she knew — she had heard about it all ! , It was all 
very fine for granny to smile. She always knew that 
“grown-ups ” liked towns, and she could remember how, 
as a child, she had been used to see the men-servants and 
maid-servants in high glee when the time came for going 
to Edinburgh for the winter, and how she had been by 
them instructed that it was very silly and naughty of 
her not to be glad too, when she ought to be thankful 
and proud that her papa had a fine house in Moray 
Place to take her to, instead of having, as many papas 
had, to stop all the year round in the nasty, cold, wet 
Plighlands, where there was no one to be seen, and not a 
shop nor a kirk within reach, once the weather turned 
bad. 

That was what the stupid maids had said, when all 
they had wanted was to get to Edinburgh to see their 
stupid sweethearts. 

She kn£w better. It had been nothing but “You 
must not do this,” and “You must not do that,” from the 
moment she had arrived in Moray Place. She had not 
been allowed to stir outside the doors, be the day ever so 
fine, until Katie had been free to attend her; she had not 
been allowed to give her dog a run without putting on 
hat, gloves, and even boots. There had been no rushing 
round stables, and kennels, and gardens in the dusk 


12 


A MERE CHILD. 


after lessons ; no dairy, no poultry-yard to take refuge 
in ; no hens, no pigeons, no young rabbits nor ferrets to 
feed ; no anything. Ten to one when she had been let 
loose from the school-room it had been, “ Miss Geral- 
dine, your mamma wishes to see you in the drawing- 
room ; she has ladies with her.” And, of course, nothing 
had been worse than that. 

Now at Inchmarew there was always something to do 
or to see — new puppies, or chickens, or something. And 
there was the shore ; and the shore there was always 
something. And there was her pony. 

But Geraldine was not prone to dwell upon the pony, 
for in her heart of hearts the young horsewoman was 
aware that, if the truth were out, her rides at Inchmarew 
over a rough, hilly district, and always along one mo- 
notonous road, with only a choice betwixt turning to the 
right or the left as the rider emerged from the lodge 
gate, would ill bear comparison with the grand sweep of 
country to be traversed in all directions round the Heart 
of Midlothian. It had been enough that she could 
affect to add this to her list of grievances ; and so it had 
gone in with the rest, and helped to add up the sum 
total. 

Yes, she had hated Edinburgh, and she was sure, quite 
sure, she should hate London equally, if not more. 

In vain granny had protested, dilated, and assured. 
Jerry had invariably listened with as much intention of 
being convinced, and of budging one hair’s-breadth from 
her position, as a young mule — and by this time every 
one knew with whom lay the reins of power at Inch- 
marew Castle. 

Jerry’s parents had been affectionate, but they had 
also been selfish ; in consequence of which she had never 
been able to lord it so completely over them as she had, 
since their death, contrived to do over their successor. 


A MERE CHILD. 


13 


Bit by bit granny had yielded on almost every contested 
point, until at last it had come about that even the 
spoilt child herself was fain to be generous, and at times 
ashamed. For Geraldine had a finer nature than had 
ever yet been manifested. 

One circumstance, it must be added, had strengthened 
the young girl’s cause when pleading to be allowed to 
remain in her Highland fastness undisturbed and unmo- 
lested, and this was the assurance privately received by 
Mrs. Campbell that a few years’ retirement and retrench- 
ment would enable the heiress to take her place in the 
world more fittingly when the time came for doing so 
than if the money were to be frittered away in town 
houses, expensive journeys, and the like, beforehand. 

Now, of all things, as we have said, the fond grand- 
mother desired to see her darling a great lady, and a 
great lady fulfilling all the duties and obligations of her 
high estate. That Geraldine should be good as well as 
great she sincerely wished and devoutly prayed ; but she 
desired both.. 

It was, to her mind, fitting and seemly that a Camp- 
bell of Inchmarew should go abroad among the great 
ones of the earth. She had herself wedded a Highland 
chief, with her head full of all the glories of doing so, 
and had found all too late that she, an Englishwoman 
born and bred, was by far the greater Highlander of 
the two. 

The disappointment had been keen, and it had been 
repeated, for her only son had followed in the steps of 
his father' — had discarded the kilt, never acquired the 
Gaelic tongue, and knew nothing and cared less about 
the legends, customs, and traditions of the house. She 
had felt herself fairly checkmated, and it had caused her 
many a pang. 

And now, behold! just when it was not wanted, and 


14 


A MERE CHILD. 


could well have been dispensed with, ail the wild blood 
that these two very tame specimens of ranting, roving 
chieftainhood ought to have possessed and never had 
possessed came surging up to light through the blue 
veins of a fair girl, and was not to be repressed. 

Cock a “Glengarry ” on one side over Jerry’s golden 
curls, tuck them out of view, and none could have wished 
for a bonnier Highland laddie. She possessed the blue, 
bright eye and saucy lip of every jaunty ancestor. She 
could whistle, she could stamp, she could featly execute 
more than one step of the sword-dance and shantreuse ; 
she could go through the Highland fling to admiration. 
It was her sport to respond in the wildest guttural 
Gaelic now and again to her mystified, half-indignant 
relative, and she was seldom seen without a piece of bog- 
myrtle — the badge of her clan — in the bosom of her 
frock. 

For her looks, her dress, her speech, or her manners, 
care she had none. 

It might have been from an innate sense of superiority, 
it might have been from sheer pride of birth or certainty 
of position, it might have been from the mere heedless- 
ness of fifteen — but certain it is that, from whatever 
source it sprung, no cottage maiden on the lonely moor- 
land thought less, or indeed thought as little, about the 
effect she produced on those around her as did this wild 
and winsome Geraldine of Inchmarew. 

The roughest plaid, the wrap most soiled and stained 
and worn by weather, suited her better than any finery 
procured from fashionable warehouses ; and when com- 
pelled to array herself in the latter one day in the week, 
and present something of a suitable appearance at the 
parish kirk, truth compels us to own that the trans- 
formed and elegant young heiress was usually sulky and 
always miserable. 


A MERE CHILD. 


15 


Ensconced in the grand old family pew, she would 
fidget from side to side, after the fashion of a restive 
colt newly caught and ill at ease. She would kick her 
smart toes against the boards in front, until the delicate 
French kid would be all worn and shabby, to be regarded 
by its owner with contemptuous disparagement and 
mental reference to her own dear, delightful, champing 
hobnails at home. She would lean back and crush her 
fine Leghorn hat — well aware that she was doing so — 
until not all the efforts of her long-suffering maid could 
restore its normal shape or freshness. She would pull 
off and on her many-buttoned gloves, and spread and 
twist her fingers in them. She would shrug her shoul- 
ders in her pretty cape, as if it were an annoyance and 
a restraint upon her movements. As for her frock it- 
self, it would be crumpled and creased in every possi- 
ble direction ; and it was only by dint of having a freshly- 
crimped and starched muslin or cambric ready for her to 
put on every Sunday morning that the irrepressible 
young lady of the manor could be rendered presentable 
at all. 

And yet — and yet — grandmamma saw through it all. 

With prophetic vision she beheld, through the vista 
of a few brief years, the hour of triumph when her dar- 
ling should be proclaimed peerless among beauties, fairest 
among the fair. 

She could afford to wait. 

A faint remonstrance, bravely started, but ending in 
thin air, as already described above, was, indeed, from 
time to time essayed ; but the annoyance would be 
transient, the doubt or fear momentary, while the abiding, 
deep-rooted conviction of her heart was that there was 
but one created being matchless in the world, and that 
one was Geraldine. 


A MERE CHILD . 


16 


CHAPTER II. 

BY THE MOUNTAIN BURN. 

“ Thy gentlest sweep, and boldest leap, 

Thy rough rock walls, and plunging falls, 

Thy foam-bells ringing free ; 

Thy pools and thy shallows, thy sun-woven shadows, 

Thy startles and sallies, thy fern-glades and valleys, 

Were early known to me.” 

Very well aware was the observant young damsel 
that this was the case ; and, being so, it surely said some- 
thing for her that she was neither inordinately selfish nor 
exacting nor altogether insubordinate. 

She would not vex granny — if she could help it. She 
would not disregard granny’s hours and comforts — if she 
remembered them. She would not defy granny — if she 
could get round her in any way. 

In her heart she had a great affection — not altogether 
unmingled with that pity which lies between love and 
contempt — for the poor dear who could no longer run 
and jump and race all over the place, gallop on bare- 
back ponies, pull herself about in the small boat, and 
fish the mountain streams, as no doubt granny had done 
in years gone by. 

Poor granny ! She could have but few pleasures now, 
and those of a very tame kind. 

It must be terrible to be only able to jog along at a 
languid pace upon the broad back of stiff old Sandy. 
(Granny was in reality a very vigorous dame of her years, 
and prided herself upon the manner in which she mount- 
ed her sturdy Shetland pony, and set off for a rough hill 
ride.) But Jerry would stand sorrowfully by to see, 
and be almost ashamed of the fine spring with which 


A MERE CHILD . 


1 7 

she alit upon her own little saddle afterward. Worse 
still must it be for the poor grandmother, she thought, 
to have to sit idly in the stern of their pretty sailing 
boat, ensconced in rugs and wraps, and taking no part 
in the hauling-in or letting-out of the sheet, the tacking, 
and the other manoeuvres with which the men were 
proud to have their little lady think she was rendering 
assistance. 

Poor granny, moreover, had to stay at home whenever 
it was wet and misty outside. Now nothing was more 
exhilarating in Jerry’s eyes than being out and abroad 
in a soaking, blinding drizzle swept in gusts across the 
moorlands, or flying up from the sea-loch, with a dash of 
salt spray about it that could be tasted on your lips 
afterward. 

It was delicious to shake out her long wet locks to dry 
in the sun that would by and by peep out. And then 
what shining and glistening of crag and corrie, what 
chirping of rejoicing birds, what freshness of tree and 
leaf, and, above all, what thundering from the hidden 
waterfalls which abounded on the moors of Inchmarew! 
Those falls were pretty well known to her — in especial 
those belonging to her own mountain burn, the one which 
dashed through the birches within their own grounds, 
and whose every turn and winding, pool and shallow, 
she had been acquainted with from early years. 

But poor granny could never see, never get near 
enough even to guess at the half of this treasure of 
beauty and delight. 

In consequence, granny was supposed to suffer such 
loss as rendered her an object of very real compassion 
and forbearance ; and in her tender moments the child 
would even look with satisfaction on the good time for 
granny which was one day to come, when, in order to 
give her some enjoyment such as she could appreciate 


i8 


A MERE CHILD. 


and partake of, she, Jerry, would sacrifice herself in so 
far as to follow meekly her poor dear in and out of a 
whole dreadful London season. 

Yes, she meant to do that, to go through even with 
that for her poor dear’s sake — granny was always her 
“ poor dear ” when in these moods — and, however hate- 
ful and wearisome the whole thing might be, granny 
should never know how much it cost her. 

The resolution helped to salve the wilful, young con- 
science many a time when Jerry had been more than 
usually self-assertive and independent. She was going 
to be good by-and-by, and for the present she was going 
to be — let alone. That, at any rate, was too often the 
practical outcome of a remorseful fit. 

With something of the kind in her mind on the 
present occasion, the little fisherwoman now ran merrily 
off down to the bridge, where Donald waited, and was 
eagerly hailed by that expectant knight. 

“Haste ye, haste ye, Miss Jerry,” cried he. “We 
arena’ a thocht ower sune. The burnie’s doon eneugh, 
and it will be aye gangin’ lower yet. And the sun — it 
wull no’ be the sun that we want — and the sun he will 
be out himsel’ directly,” pointing as he spoke to gleams 
of light here and there breaking out on every side. 
“ Haste ye, then ! ” exhorted the ragged urchin, ardently; 
and seizing the basket, and slinging it across his shoul- 
ders, while his young mistress with equal dispatch took 
from him her rod, the two suddenly disappeared from 
the bridge, and plunged into the recesses of the wood, 
which at this point approached nearer the Castle grounds 
than any other. 

Breath was precious, and neither wasted it in words. 
A quarter of an hour’s hurried climb brought them to the 
side of the burn, which could be heard ever more and 
more distinctly roaring in its tumultuous depths; but, 


A MERE CHILD. 


19 


though brief, the transit was rough enough to have 
soaked and torn any less durable covering than that 
donned by the prudent little maid, who now fearlessly 
followed her pioneer over mossy rock and quagmire, un- 
til each had slid down the slimy bank, and found them- 
selves in the hollow, beneath a swollen and bellowing 
waterfall. 

They were not too late. The waters had barely sub- 
sided sufficiently for sport, as their anxious critical eyes 
assured them. A sharp point which should project from 
the heart of the fall, when the time to fish the pool be- 
neath had arrived, was just putting out its nose, and 
before that had been done the stream would have been 
too full. 

Donald nodded in silent ecstasy — speech would have 
been thrown away. 

Both, however, understood to move a little lower 
down, to where the black depth showed signs of yielding 
and flowing out in a shallower current toward its ocean 
bed, and then, and almost simultaneously, each threw a 
line. 

Fortune was on their side. 

At the very first cast a greedy trout of lusty propor- 
tions and in excellent humor, as though as ready to be 
caught as the fair angler was to catch him, sportively 
hooked himself on to Jerry’s line, and was landed in a 
trice. 

He was but the earnest of the fun to follow. 

It was hardly fishing; it seemed all loading, all basket- 
ing, all rejoicing, and mute comparing. 

At length, however, the little girl’s tongue could keep 
silence no longer, and at an unlucky moment, for she 
had worked her way to some slight distance from the 
lad, she let it go. She had just landed a fine one. 

“ Look, look at this, Donald.” 


20 


A MERE CHILD. 


Donald at the moment drew carefully on to the rocks 
its counterpart. 

“ Why, yours is still bigger. Oh, I say, isn’t it splen- 
did?” shouted his enchanted companion. “Isn’t it 
glorious? Isn’t it ” 

“ What’s your wull ? ” 

He thought she had something to say, something for 
him to do, or to go for. 

“ Isn’t it glorious ? ” in rising accents. 

“ Ech ? ” Only those who know the shrill Highland 
screech can interpret that “ Ech ? ” whose feeble Southron 
meaning would be “Eh?” “Ech?” screeched the 
urchin, wrinkling up his small, shrewd physiognomy, and 
putting his hand behind his ear, the better to hear and 
comprehend. 

“Nothing — nothing,” impatiently. “ I only said how 
splendid it was and what beauties they are,” bawled Miss 
Jerry back, unable, woman-like, to resist the last word. 

“ E-c-h ? ” again, at the extreme pitch of Donald’s 
little yelling voice. 

“Oh, what’s the use of talking?” and Jerry stamped 
and frowned. “ Never mind — never mind, I say. 
Nothing — nothing — nothing,” as the grinning, wrinkled, 
inquiring face was still stretched out for the information 
which the noise of the waters drowned. “ Stupid boy,” 
added she, sotto voce , “hear that, if you can ! Oh, the 
idiot, he is actually coming over the rock to me. Oh, 
Donald, you idiot, stop where you are ! Go back — go 
back — I don’t want you. Go back, I say — back — back ! ” 
waving a peremptory hand. “ Go — back ! ” in a last 
supreme effort. 

“Can I tell the boy anything?” inquired a voice 
almost in her ear. 

So startling was the gentle sound that the effect pro- 
duced upon anyone thus taken at unawares might have 


A MERE CHILD. 


21 


been — nay, must have been, anticipated ; but on Geral- 
dine this effect was intensified, from the fact that, in 
spite of her hardihood and early training, she was un- 
usually susceptible to anything of the kind, and in con- 
sequence was strictly guarded from the chance of its 
occurring. 

It could, therefore, be no inmate of Inchmarew, who, 
plainly with the intention of causing surprise, had thus 
crept up behind, and now almost breathed in her ear. 

On the surface, the interference was, of course, pardon- 
able. A civil inquiry and offer of help, when it appeared 
that two of a party were desirous of communicating with 
each other, and were unable to do so, could hardly be 
cavilled at ; and perhaps the perpetrator of the jest was 
not greatly to blame in that, when the extraordinary and 
grotesque figure he had addressed whirled round upon 
him with a gesture that sent her fishing-rod flying over 
the rocky promontory, and a cry that rose above the 
raging of the waters, he merely laughed aloud, and that 
in her very face. But he caught her by the arm, never- 
theless, for her foot slipped, and the place was not one 
to slip in. 

“ What, you young shaver,” he cried, as he did so, 
“ what, I made you jump, did I — eh ? By George ! it’s a 
girl,” catching sight of her face and of a wavy lock around 
her throat. “ It’s a girl, by all that’s wonderful ! And 
a rare pretty girl, too. Well, my lassie, come, come,” 
as a burst of tears now succeeded the first shock of alarm. 
“ Come, come,” continued the stranger, patting her on 
the shoulder, and still laughing at the success of his 
trick, “no need for all this din. I would not have done 
it if I had known you were a girl ; but, after all, there’s 
no harm done. I only meant to make you jump. And 
I owe you one for being beforehand with me at this pool, 
the best pool in the stream, or I am mistaken. What 


22 


A MERE CHILD. 


business had you two monkeys to spoil the water for 
me — eh ? Little rascals like you can’t catch the trout 
yourselves, and you only make a mess of other people’s 
sport. Oh, I say, though — ” as at the moment his 
eye fell upon the brimming creel, somewhat ostenta- 
tiously opened by Donald, who had drawn near, and had 
understood enough to perceive that some one was being 
rated, and that his and his young lady’s fishing was, 
moreover, being disparaged. 

“ Did you catch all those ?” demanded the new-comer, 
in accents which told their own tale. 

Donald nodded. 

“ And here — in this pool ?” 

The brat nodded again 

“Good heavens, what luck! And I’ll warrant you 
have had the best of them, too, you young rascal. And 
you, too, you Jenny or Maggie, or whatever they call 
you, you can throw a line as well as he. I saw you from 
the bank. And I say, what a nice rod,” picking it up; 
“ where did you get that rod ? Wha gied it ye, lassie ? ” 
essaying the broad Northern dialect in an unmistakable 
Southern accent, and eying the pretty rod, of a make 
superior to that which he himself held, jealously as he 
spoke. 

There was no sort of response. Miss Campbell, of 
Inchmarew, was for once feeling herself fairly caught in 
her own trap. Granny had told her, warned her what 
might be the result of her present disguise, and that re- 
sult had strictly come to pass. 

The person making the mistake predicted by the 
wiser head was clearly a gentleman, and poor Jerry, still 
tearful and sobbing, had all the instincts of a lady. 

It was dreadful to her to be addressed as she was now 
being — not that there was anything rude or disagreeable 
either in the stranger’s tone or manner, but it was suf- 


A MERE CHILD. 


23 


ficiently jocose and familiar to jar upon the ear of a high- 
born young maiden, accustomed to a certain degree of 
deference added to courtesy ; and although a cottage 
lassie, such as she was deemed to be, would probably have 
found no fault either with the jog of the elbow or chuck 
of the chin which accompanied the last inquiry, it is hard 
to say which of the two actions the indignant little 
lady most resented. 

Perhaps the swift recollection that she had brought 
both on herself was worse to bear than all beside. 

Hitherto she had not spoken, being sufficiently oc- 
cupied in steadying her still tremulous limbs, and check- 
ing the tears which, do what she would, could not all at 
once be restrained, but the insult conveyed in the chang- 
ing of plain English for broad Scotch was too much, and 
enabled her, better than anything else could have done, 
to regain full command of her small self. She now drew 
haughtily away, drew up to her full height — alas! the 
cruel yellow oil-skin hid the grace with which she did 
it ! — and with quivering, passionate lips strove to assert 
herself, her rights, and her dignity. 

In vain ; the stranger only laughed the more. 

“ Come, I meant no harm,” he said, pleasantly. “ May 
I not even touch this rod ? Such a clipper as it is, too! 
I’ll do it no harm; I’m used to rods,” stretching out his 
hand as the coveted possession was jerked in another di- 
rection. “ Oh, I see how it is,” continued he, “you have 
‘ no English,’ and I, unfortunately, have ‘ no Gaelic,’ so 
what’s to be done ? (She’s furious, the pretty vixen,” 
aside, “ I must appease her or we shall come to blows 
next.) Hey, young woman — hey, I say. Oh, so you 
have found your tongue at last, have you ? What is it ? 
I can’t for the life of me hear a mutter like that; you 
must speak louder, you know. Louder, miss, louder,” 
nodding at her. “ Oh, she is not addressing me at all ; 


24 


A MERE CHILD. 


too deeply offended, I suppose; and it is only to the 
other wild man of the woods that she will condescend 

to ” but the speaker’s own voice died away, his 

lips fell apart, and the smile faded from his cheek, as he 
caught at last one distinct, unmistakable sentence, and 
that delivered in accents which, in spite of their child- 
ish treble, had a ring of command as well as the refine- 
ment of modulation. 

“ Donald, tell this gentleman, from me, that this is 
my burn, and that I give him no leave to fish in it, and 
that I desire him to go away at once.” 

If ever tables were turned in the twinkling of an eye, 
they were now upon that gallant young life-guardsman, 
Captain Frederick Augustus Bellenden, the great man 
of his family, and great match of his county, and the 
last person in the world to have been made a fool of by 
his own blunder. 

There was no mistaking the seriousness of the situa- 
tion. 

The ragged imp, to whom the order for Bellenden’s 
summary ejection was intrusted, turned straight upon 
himself, and in his own fashion confirmed it forthwith. 

“ The leddy says it will not be here you will fish, nor 
this burn you will fish to-day. The leddy says it is you 
who will go where you come from, and leave this place;” 
and in further demonstration of the validity of his au- 
thority, the sturdy shred of a clansman pointed with his 
finger up the bank, whence he divined the intrusion had 
been made. 

“Good heavens!” ejaculated the amazed Bellenden. 

“ Ech ? ” shrieked Donald again, drawing closer to him, 
and still fixedly pointing up the bank. “ Ech ? Is it 
the way you would know ? There is no other way than 
that.” 

“ But I — I want to fish here.” 


A MERE CHILD, 


25 


“ The leddy says ” 

“Surely the lady” — and he glanced still doubtfully 
around — “ surely the lady will permit me to fish ” 

“ I will do nothing of the kind ! ” said Jerry, with a 
stamp. 

The next instant she was sliding about on the face of 
the wet and slippery rock, not altogether free from the 
danger of slipping over either; and, “Good heavens!” 
again ejaculated Bellenden, for he was now alarmed on 
a new count. The next instant he had thrown aside his 
own rod, clasped the swaying form in his arms, seized a 
birchen branch with one hand, and was swinging himself 
and his burden by it to a place of safety. At the mo- 
.ment off came the “ sou’-wester,” and a glorious profu- 
sion of shining hair half hid the crimson brow and cheek 
beneath it. 

“ A lovely girl,” thought the stranger at once; “and 
what a blessed fool I have made of myself! ” Aloud he 
merely remarked : “ Pray, young lady, as long as you 
live, remember to beware of standing so near the edge of 
a slippery rock, especially if you are engaged in an ab- 
sorbing occupation. Upon my word, I thought you 
were down just now,” taking off his cap, and brushing 
his hand across his forehead. “ It was horrid. Ugh ! I 
can’t think of it.” 

v I had Donald,” said Miss Campbell, but in rather an 
altered voice, for she, too, had been frightened, and did 
not feel quite as she had done toward this stranger a 
few moments before. 

“ That child,” said Bellenden, contemptuously. “ He 
can take care of himself, I doubt not,” for Donald was, 
at the moment, stepping from ledge to ledge of the 
giddy points as daintily and safely as a mountain cat 
might, “ but what could a little bit of a creature like 
that do to save you, if you had another slip like this ? 


26 


A MERE CHILD. 


Do, pray, be warned. You — you are very young your- 
self. Do your parents know you come to a place like 
this ? ” 

“ I have no parents.” Her bosom heaved. 

“Forgive me,” he said, very respectfully; “but you 
must have some one — some guardian ” 

“ I have my grandmother.” 

“ And you live with her ? ” 

“ She lives with me,” quoth the heiress of Inchmarew. 

“ Oh — h ! ” Every instant brought a new revelation. 
He grew more and more grave and courteous. 

“And this lady who takes care of you — your grand- 
mamma, does she know this place ? Has she ever been 
with you here ? ” 

But this was too much for Jerry. It was too funny. 
She really could not help herself ; she must laugh if she 
died for it. Granny at the high pool ! Granny, who 
had never been near the burnside in her life, who knew 
as much of her pools as she did of the Falls of Niagara, 
and of her birchen bank as of the precipices of the An- 
•des! She gave way once for all now, and a laugh so 
sweet, so jubilant, so frank and childish rang out in the 
ears of the once again astonished Bellenden that he felt 
as if bewitched by a creature only half mortal. “ What 
was she up to now ? ” 

“ Oh, you are so funny! Oh, if you only knew how 
funny you are,” cried the child, laughing her high, clear, 
bell-like laugh again and again, “ to ask if Granny comes 
here ! Granny ! Oh, dear, oh, dear ! And if she knows 
this place ! Oh, dear, oh, dear ! ” and she shook her 
curly head with eyes that brimmed over, as if the mirth 
of such a suggestion could never have an end. 

“ Well, I — I suppose I must be funny since you say I 
am,” responded the stranger, soberly, “ though upon my 
word I did not know it. Young ladies of your age,” 


A MERE CHILD . 


2 7 


mentally appraising her at twelve, for her face was sin- 
gularly young, though she was tall enough, “young la- 
dies of your age do not generally go about alone, or with 
only mountain gillies, and 1 should say that if your 
grandmamma knew what a dangerous place this is ” 

“ The real danger was what you did yourself,” re- 
torted Jerry, with a sudden pout. “When you startled 
me like that I might have fallen off very easily.” 

“You might, and I can only say that I had not real- 
ized the slippery state of the rocks — but any way I ought 
not to have done it. But now,” he added, with a smile, 
“ can you forgive and be friendly ? See, I most hum- 
bly sue for pardon. I am a total stranger here; I 
know nobody ; and, being stranded for the. night at the 
inn down there, was told by the good woman who keeps 
it that I might bring her in a dish of trout from this 
burn, and she especially mentioned this pool within the 
grounds of Inchmarew Castle.” 

“ She did ?” cried Jerry, her eyes glaring. 

“ I expect she never thought of any one else being out 
on such a day.” 

“ She had no business to think about it. She knows 
that this is my burn, and that I keep it for myself and 
my friends.” 

“ Oh,” said the young man, and the truth burst upon 
him. “ Then you are Miss Campbell of Inchmarew,” 
he said. 


28 


A MERE CHILD. 


CHAPTER III. 

“ BY JOVE ! WHAT A NICE CHILD ! ” 

“ But I shall be past making love, 

When she begins to comprehend it.” 

After this admission it seemed all at once as if the 
clouds rolled away, the sun shone out, and all was right. 

A few sentences did the rest. It seemed but a min- 
ute ere he had offered a respectful hand down the bank 
— very different to the grasp which had conveyed her up 
it — and the two were chatting away as long as they 
could be heard, and nodding, directing, and approving, 
as the case might be, when too near the fall for speech 
— and the sport began afresh. 

After a successful hour or so, Geraldine next proposed 
a move further up, the presence of the new-comer being 
accepted by Donald with the stolidity common to his 
kind, and the three all now upon the best of terms. 

After the next hunting-ground had been abandoned, 
“ Where next ?” cried Bellenden, gaily, “ where next?” 

“ I am afraid we have no other really good place,” re- 
plied his young hostess, almost apologetically, for she 
was now as anxious to do the honors as she had been 
first to avoid them. “ I hardly think we shall get many 
more to-day, but if you would like to come again to- 
morrow — ” she added, shyly, for it was a great event to 
her to give an invitation of the kind, and she could get 
no further. 

“ To-morrow I am afraid I shall be many miles away, 
and I shall be shooting instead of fishing.” 

“ Oh,” said Jerry. “ That’s a pity,” she added, 
simply. 


A MERE CHILD. 


29 


“ I am on my way to Kincraig,” continued the speaker, 
not unwilling to volunteer a little information in the 
hope of getting some in return, for things he had heard 
before had been rapidly coming back to him during the 
silent part of the past hour or two, and it was, on the 
whole, rather interesting to have had an adventure with 
this odd little witch of an heiress, who, report said, pos- 
sessed, or would possess one day, the best estate and 
grandest moor in the country. A part of this very moor 
was, he knew, at present rented by the very friend with 
whom he was going to shoot on the following day, and 
accordingly, “ I am on my way to Kincraig,” he began ; 
but Jerry interrupted him eagerly, and with the pleasur- 
able excitement of one in whose life incidents and events 
were rare. “ Kincraig ! ” she cried. “ Are you going to 
stay with Archie Kincraig?” 

“ No; my friend’s name is Campbell. He is Archie, 
however,” said Bellenden. 

“Oh, Campbell, of course; but we call him Archie 
Kincraig, because we are all Campbells here. I should 
have been called Inchmarew if I had been a man ; as it 
is, I am £ Jerry Inchmarew,’ because, you see, I am the 
head of the house — ” and again she drew up her young 
proud figure, and again, alas! the ill-disposed yellow 
oilskin coat hid the grace of the unconscious move- 
ment. 

“Your name is Campbell, I know,” said Bellenden, 
amused, “ I was told a great deal about Miss Campbell 
on the boat, as we passed Inchmarew Castle, but I did 
not hear ‘ Jerry Inchmarew.’” 

“ That is only by my friends, you know, not by my 
people.” 

“ If it had, I might have been a little quicker in guess- 
ing who * Jerry Inchmarew ’ was.” 

She laughed. Her wrath had completely gone by. 


30 


A MERE CHILD. 


“ And so you have let your shooting ? ” continued 
Bellenden. 

‘‘Only a part of it. Not the best part either. That 
is kept for my cousin Cecil.” 

“ Oh ! ” 

“ My cousin, Cecil Raymond. He comes to us every 
twelfth of August, and we expect him this evening. 
There ! I believe this is his boat coming in now,” eying 
a long thin streak of blue smoke discernible over a head- 
land in the loch below. “ We shall see her directly, if it 
is. Yes, there she comes, rounding the point now,” said 
Jerry, excitedly; “look; do you see her? She comes 
into our own ferry pier next.” 

“ I see her.” 

“ I wonder if Cecil is in her,” murmured the little girl 
to herself, with what seemed to her companion some- 
thing of a tender interest. 

“ I know some Raymonds,” he observed. “ I wonder 
if this can be one of them — Lord Raymond’s family ? ” 

“ Why, of course. And Cecil is the eldest son,” cried 
Jerry, with renewed excitement. “Why, how very, very 
odd ! And you know my Aunt Charlotte — Lady Ray- 
mond — and — and Ethel and Alicia, and all of them ? 
Oh, dear, how strange it seems ! ” 

Bellenden laughed. It was not quite so strange in his 
eyes, a man of the world, who went everywhere, and 
made new acquaintances every day ; but he was amused 
and pleased with the impression the wonderful discovery 
made upon his little friend. 

“ Oh, yes, I know them all — at least I suppose I do,” 
he said. “ I do not know them very intimately, mind ; 
you must not put me through my facings too severely ; 
*but I have certainly met both Lord and Lady Ray- 
mond ” 

“ And Ethel and Alicia?” 


A MERE CHILD. 31 

“Not that I remember. I do not remember any Miss 
Raymonds.” 

“ Oh, but they are hardly Miss Raymonds yet. Ethel 
is only a year older than I am, and Alicia is just my age. 
But Cecil is grown up — he is nearly twenty.” 

“Twenty? Yes, the Raymond I know must be about 
twenty. At Oxford ? ” 

“ Yes — yes. At Oxford.” 

“ I stayed with him at a house this year. I remember 
him perfectly. Tall, and fairand ” 

“ Yes, that is Cecil — why, it is Cecil, of course. Oh, 
you must come down and see him. Come along, quick, 
and we’ll meet the boat. If we run down straight from 
here, we can easily head her, and get to the pier first. 
Do come ; Cecil will like us to meet him.” 

“ Like this?” suggested Bellenden, looking first at her 
and then at himself, though, truth to tell, it was of her 
appearance only he had his doubts. For himself, he was 
all right, roughly but suitably and becomingly clad ; but 
Jerry was — such a Jerry! And he knew well that young 
Oxonians were sensitive on such points, and not likely 
to appreciate being hailed, even oi| a Highland pier, by 
Highland cousins wrapped in oilskins, and topped by 
sou’-westers. 

“ To be sure, I had forgotten,” owned the little lady 
herself, coloring slightly under the imputation. “ I do 
look rather queer, don’t I ? And Cecil is most fright- 
fully, dreadfully particular. I should catch it from 
granny ever so much, if he were to see me.” 

“ But you don’t mind my seeing you ? ” 

“ Oh, no — at least, I mean I never thought about it. 
Granny would have minded, I daresay ; but then you 
will not see granny, unless” — and again the round young 
cheek was suffused by a blush — “ unless you will come 
home with me, and ” 


32 


A MERE CHILD . 


Now this was the very proposal Bellenden was long- 
ing to have made him. 

“ I should like to see the Raymonds again,” he said, 
thoughtfully. 

Perhaps he really thought at the moment that he 
should like it. Perhaps it was only the remembrance of 
the close, stuffy, whiskey-reeking little inn at the ferry, 
which made a chance of escaping from it so seductive ; 
but at any rate the unfortunate traveller felt that for life 
or death his only hope was to hang on to Cecil Raymond 
now, and that never in his life before had an acquain- 
tanceship turned up such trumps. 

Until within a few moments he had been forced to 
contemplate passing a luckless night in a damp, rough 
bed, amid the coarsest surroundings, with heavy mists 
obliterating all the beauties of the landscape without, 
and with no companionship, save his own thoughts, 
within. He had been positively assured that there was 
no possibility of reaching his friend’s shooting-lodge 
until the following morning ; that the boat on which 
he had depended for proceeding up the loch did not 
go beyond the ferry c*i that special evening of the week ; 
and that the best, indeed the only thing, to be done 
was for him to take up his quarters at Dame Maconoc- 
hie’s little public house, and inhabit her one spare room. 

It had been a sorry look-out ; but it had been miti- 
gated by the dame’s suggestion that he should take her 
son’s rod, and bring her in some trout from the Inchma- 
rew burn, not a mile off, which burn she assured him 
would be in fine trim after the rain, and was noted for its 
trout. 

The worthy woman had not added that the fishing in 
its best part was jealously guarded for the benefit of the 
young mistress of the place, and that any one caught 
trespassing within the Inchmarew grounds in pursuit of 


A MERE CHILD. 


33 


sport would be in an awkward predicament. She had 
trusted to the gentleman’s not being caught. The odds 
were that he would not be so ; the day being so exceed- 
ingly bad ; and the stream having been so greatly aug- 
mented by the recent rains, she concluded that the little 
miss would hardly be allowed out, and that, at any rate, 
if the worst came to the worst, the stranger would say 
nothing about her. She did not think he would even 
know her name. 

She had equipped and seen him off joyfully, and he 
had had no idea of going where he should not have gone, 
nor of doing what he should not have done, until in- 
formed by Donald, or rather by Donald’s liege lady, of 
his high misdemeanor. 

He was now disposed to return evil for good, and, in- 
stead of saying “ Thank you ” to his landlady for a merry 
afternoon’s excellent sport, to slip through her fingers, 
and let her cook her unsavory dinner for some one else. 

“ I should like to see the Raymonds again,” was, how- 
ever, all he said. 

“Then come up and dine with me,” replied Jerry, 
promptly. “ Do — I am sure you may. I am sure granny 
would let me ask you.” 

“Are you sure?” said Bellenden, unable to help 
smiling at the childish form the invitation had taken. 
“ But then, you see, I do not know your grandmamma, 
and -” 

“ It is not granny’s house, you know ; it is mine,” 
anxiously. 

“ Oh, I understand.” 

“And if /ask you,” the spoilt child again asserting 
itself in her tone; “ if I ask you ” 

“ I need no other invitation, certainly,” said he, courte- 
ously. “ Only, you see, you are really too kind. You 
do not even know my name.” 


34 


A MERE CHILD. 


“ Well, what is your name ? ” 

“ Bellenden. But I will tell you what I can do, Miss 
Campbell ” 

“ Don’t call me Miss Campbell ; it makes me feel foolish.” 

“ But, in my turn, I don’t know your name — I mean 
your other name.” 

“ It is Geraldine — but no one calls me that except 
Cecil.” 

(“ Cecil again,” thought he. “ Cecil is privileged, I pre- 
sume.) What am I to call you, then ? ” he inquired aloud. 

“Why, Jerry, of course. Everybody does.” 

“Very well, Jerry.” But she saw he was laughing. 
She was so changeful, so whimsical, this sprite of a chief- 
tainess, that one moment it would be “ my castle,” “ my 
moor,” “ my ” everything, and the next she was asking 
him to call her “ Jerry !” One thing, however, was clear, 
that what she asked must be done ; and amazed at him- 
self for the readiness with which he fell in with her 
humors, Bellenden only hoped that the adventure would 
proceed as cheerily as it had begun. 

“Well, then, Jerry, what am I to do now?” he duti- 
fully proceeded. “Am I to get your cousin to bring me 
up with him ? Am I to tell him you invited me ? ” 

“ If you could do without telling him that ! ” 

“ Oh, I could, of course. But why do you mind ? 
Will you not tell your grandmother?” for it struck him 
that unless some one were told he could not very well 
accept of such haphazard hospitality. 

“ Of course I’ll tell granny.” The child’s eyes opened. 
“ I tell granny everything. She doesn’t matter,” ex- 
claimed the candid grandchild ; “ and I don’t see why 
I should mind Cecil either,” added she, bravely, “ only 
that I don’t like to vex my poor dear, and if he were to 
lecture me it would vex her. It is not for myself I mind,” 
concluded she with earnest emphasis. 


A MERE CHILD. 


35 


“ She shan’t be vexed,” said Bellenden, quietly, “ I 
can manage that. Good-by, then, till we meet again. 
I must go down now or I shall be too late. Is it straight 
down, through the woods?” 

“ Yes, you can’t go wrong. Good-by. Dinner is at 
half-past seven.” And he felt the palm of a warm, wet 
little hand in his for a moment, and all perception of 
uncouth garb and eccentric headgear vanished in the 
light of a pair of bright eyes looking full into his. 

“By Jove ! what a nice child ! ” he thought. 

He was only just in time when the boat came in ; long 
before the few passengers had landed, the slim figure of 
Cecil Raymond, arrayed in a long, light travelling coat, 
which was then the mode, was clearly discernible on the 
gangway, while the usual paraphernalia of a sportsman — 
the gun-case, rod, smart portmanteau, and railway-rug 
which was visible below — could have belonged to no one 
else on board. As swiftly as he was himself distin- 
guished, did he distinguish Captain Bellenden of the 
First Life Guards, the principal guest and smartest man 
of the party assembled at a bachelor cousin’s for the 
Ascot week the previous June. 

Young Raymond had thought a great deal of being 
included in that party, had often since referred to it, and 
casually mentioned — as people will, you know — that 
Bellenden had been there. 

He had not met Bellenden since, and the point now 
was, would Bellenden know him again. 

Had the meeting taken place anywhere else, anywhere 
but in this lonely spot, he would hardly have expected 
recognition — but perhaps — and just as he was doubting 
and cogitating, his mind was set at rest in the most satis- 
factory manner possible. He was not only known but 
hailed, and hailed with remarkable cordiality and fervor, 
his hand warmly grasped, and his acquaintanceship 


36 


A MERE CHILD. 


claimed without the slightest shade of hesitation. He had 
hardly ever been more gratified. He who had been the 
veriest nonentity at the Ascot meeting, who had not 
exchanged above a dozen or two sentences with the 
great man of the party, and who had felt the distance 
between him, a lad of nineteen in his first year at Oxford, 
and Captain Bellenden, a man of the world and certainly 
ten years, if not more, his senior, as quite immeasurable, 
now to be met on equal terms and in the easiest fash- 
ion ! There could be but one solution of the problem. 

“Stopping at my grandmother’s, I suppose?” he 
suggested at once, with this thought in his mind, that 
some one must have sent the traveller there for a night’s 
lodging on his way to more congenial haunts. Of course, 
Inchmarew Castle would always be a respectable place to 
send any one to, and some friend had probably given 
Bellenden an introduction, and — but Bellenden’s first 
words dispelled the idea. 

“ Indeed, I am not so happy,” he said, carelessly. 
“ There is where I am stopping,” pointing to the wretched 
little inn at the head of the pier. “ I am on my way 
farther up the loch, and am fairly caught and landed 
here for the want of the means of proceeding.” He then 
explained his sad plight more fully, though affecting to 
treat the whole as a jest, and without throwing out hint 
or suggestion of any possible amendment. “ Oh, I shall 
do well enough,” he concluded, “ and I can get on to 
Kincraig first thing to-morrow ; I only wish you would 
come and spend the evening with me. But you are 
going on to friends, I suppose ? ” 

“ To Inchmarew — over there — yes. I’ll tell you what,” 
said Cecil, suddenly, “you must really come there, too. 
You must indeed. There is no one but my grandmother, 
Mrs. Campbell, and my cousin, a little girl, to whom the 
place belongs. Mrs. Campbell is a most hospitable old 


A MERE CHILD. 


37 


lady, and if I were to go up without you, directly I told 
her you were here it would only be a case of sending 
down the dog-cart at once. And, see, the rain is begin- 
ning again. It is going to be a beastly night. You had 
much better come up while it is only as slight as this; 
there will be a down-pour by and by. I can assure you, 
you may trust me that it will be all right.” 

“ I — upon my word, you are too kind.” 

“ Not at all. I am only my grandmother’s spokesman. 
Here, you, Hector, get out Captain Bellenden’s things 
from the inn, and put them into the dog-cart with mine. 
And, I say, tell Mrs. Maconochie it will be all right.” 

“ But supposing the house is full ? ” 

“ Inchmarew full ! Oh, you have not seen the castle 
yet. It is a huge place. But at present they have no- 
body, for my cousin is so young that they are living as 
quietly as possible.” 

“ I have met your cousin already, and she gave me per- 
mission to fish in the stream. I have had a capital after- 
noon’s trouting in consequence.” 

“ Have you ? I’m glad of that. If the boat had come 
in sooner, I had meant to run up to Some of the high 
pools before dinner. I knew the water would be good.” 

“Your cousin kindly showed me the high pools herself.” 

“ Really ? Oh, you have met Geraldine, herself, then ? 
Put the gun-case in here, Hector, along with mine. The 
portmanteau can go at William’s feet, can’t it ? Any 
thing more? Rugs. Why, yes; they can stay here, if 
you like, but there’s lots of room. Now, will you get 
up?” And the two mounted; and of so little conse- 
quence did it seem to be in young Raymond’s eyes, 
whether or no his young cousin had been casually met 
for a passing minute, or had been spent the whole after- 
noon with, that Bellenden did not think it worth his 
while to inform him on the subject. 


33 


A MERE CHILD. 


CHAPTER IV. 

PLAYFELLOWS. 

“ ‘ And which am I most like ? ’ she said ; 

‘ Your Chloe, or your nut-brown maid ? ’ ” 

Driving along, Cecil chatted merrily, with a sense of 
doing the honors natural to one who, as their nearest 
male relative, took the bottom of the table, inspected 
the kennels, and reported upon the stables,' whenever 
he visited the ladies of Inchmarew. 

He was now in the apologetic vein. The property, he 
confided, was being nursed at present. There was a good 
deal of retrenchment going on. The grounds were not 
kept as they had been. His grandmother had knocked 
off a lot of under-strappers and useless hangers-on. The 
gardens had been ridiculously expensive, and she had 
curtailed them considerably. 

Of course, when his cousin came of age, these things 
would be different. She could then do as she chose ; 
but, for the present, he thought his grandmother was 
very wise to spend as little as need be. It was not as 
if they were living in the world — with more of the kind. 

To all this his companion cheerfully assented, as he 
would have done to almost any thing at the moment. 
The relief of getting away from the hovel, the thought 
of which had grown more insupportable than ever dur- 
ing the past half-hour, was so intense that he would have 
permitted Mrs. Campbell to knock off every gardener on 
the place, and curtail her expenditure in every direction, 
so long as he was given a decent dinner to eat and a 
decent bed to sleep in. 

There was, however, no call for such indulgence. A 


A MERE CHILD . 


39 


brief experience sufficed to show that the boyish brag 
of a youth, anxious to enhance the dignity of all con- 
nected with him, was on the present occasion making 
a great deal out of a very little. There might be re- 
trenchment — there was certainly no discomfort nor dis- 
order anywhere. 

A respectable elderly major-domo stood in the door- 
way to receive the new arrival, and a trim lad in a quiet 
but neat livery ran down the steps, and began to take 
out the luggage with deft despatch. Mrs. Campbell, 
Mr. Raymond was informed, was in the drawing-room 
awaiting him, and Bellenden, who lingered for a moment 
affecting to be occupied with his belongings, but in reality 
to allow a moment for explanation, had soon the satis- 
faction of seeing the stately dame emerge from a distant 
doorway, escorted by her nephew, all eagerness to present 
his friend. 

For an expected guest she could wait within the ante- 
chamber ; but courtesy to a stranger, and one not assured 
of a welcome, sent her forth to meet him. 

He felt at once all that he might now hope for. His 
own manner, always easy and engaging, at once rose with 
the occasion, and he bowed over the hand held out to 
him with the reverence of a courtier. 

“He is charming,” thought she. “Never was such 
luck,” thought he. Each smiled at the other, and the 
good understanding was compLete. 

“ It is going to be a very wet night, I fear,” said Mrs. 
Campbell, glancing outside, as the raindrops now began 
to beat heavily against the tall narrow windows. “ I 
fear, Cecil, that there is not much chance of your having 
a fine day for the moor to-morrow. I consulted our 
weather-wise old gardener, Macdonald, on the subject, 
and he shook his head. Unfortunately for you, we have 
had a long spell of fine weather ; it has been really too 


40 


A MERE CHILD. 


fine of late, and every one began to fear it could not last 
much longer. You know that August is never our best 
month, and one cannot expect summer weather to last 
forever.” 

“ No, we can’t, grandma.” Cecil only smiled to him- 
self, and only smiled to remember how often he had 
heard the same before. It seemed to him that he had 
heard it ever since he could remember — the time-worn 
apology for the mists of Inchmarew. And yet how 
dearly he loved the place and its inmates. Its very 
rains, and floods, and cloud-capped mountain-peaks, 
were sacred in his eyes, and he would not have let 
Bellenden into the secret of his infirmity for the world. 
Who could say but what the morrow might see glorious 
sunshine and melting warmth ; and if so, why not have 
been prepared for it ? “I have no doubt it will clear, 
by and by,” he said, readily; “and let it rain as much 
as it will to-night, there’s no harm done. Grandmam- 
ma, can we have a fire in the billiard-room this evening? 
I daresay Captain Bellenden would like a game of bil- 
liards after dinner.” 

“ Certainly, my dear.” And the order was given. 
“ And let the fire be lit at once,” added the old lady, 
anxious to do everything well. “ The room may be a 
little damp,” in explanation to Bellenden, “ for it has 
not been used this summer.” 

“Not been used this summer! Good heavens!” in- 
wardly ejaculated he. “ And am I to play on a table 
not used this summer!” It was a blow, and he was only 
just able to avoid showing that it was one. 

“ I am afraid it will not be in a very good condition,” 
continued Cecil Raymond, who was but a half degree 
more learned on the subject than his grandmother. 
“ But you must make allowances ; and, anyway, it’s 
better than doing nothing.” 


A MERE CHILD. 


41 


“And, any way, it’s a very great deal better than sit- 
ting in the midst of peat-reek and whiskey at the ‘ Ferry 
Inn ’ ! ” reflected his friend. And the thought restored 
his former equanimity as if by magic. 

He had, as he was wont to say of himself, the knack 
of being civil. Accustomed to luxury, and courted by 
prosperity, he was yet of so happy a temperament that 
ill-fortune could not daunt nor adverse circumstances 
ruffle him. To escape either, he would, indeed, as we 
know, exert ingenuity and address; but, had these failed, 
no one would have heard more of the matter. He would 
have smoked a philosophical cigar, gone to bed, and 
proceeded on his journey the next day without an oath 
or a grumble. He was by no means a bad sort of fel- 
low. 

He now dressed himself for dinner serenely, with 
scarce a moment’s regret for the services of the valet, who 
had been sent on to Kincraig by another and a swifter 
route, and whose absence had been a real satisfaction to 
his master, during the terrible anticipations of the after- 
noon. He was not by any means so dependent on the 
very fine gentleman as Monsieur Pierre supposed, and 
could calmly pack his own portmanteau, and put on his 
own coat, when compelled by necessity to do so. 

By nature he was a very handsome man — and cared 
singularly little about it. By art he was a perfectly 
dressed man — and that, he considered, was every one 
else’s business rather than his own. He went to the 
best tailor, hatter, hair-cutter, and boot-maker in town, 
and he could do no more. If the result were not satis- 
factory, it was no fault of his ; and, in consequence, no 
misgiving nor uneasiness on the subject ever disturbed 
his mind. 

Sooner than any other person he now descended to the 
drawing-room. 


42 


A MERE CHILD. 


“ Oh, I’m the first,” he began, half aloud. “ What has 
become of my little fisher-lassie, I wonder? Is she go- 
ing to give me the slip,? Or — stop ; here she comes.” 

It was, however, no fisher-lassie who now appeared. It 
was the daintiest little maiden in the world, shy and rosy, 
half-pleased, half-frightened, and altogether charming, 
who advanced up the room. To be more exact, it was 
Jerry, in the very best Sunday frock she could muster, 
starched and crimped till it stood out on every side. 
Jerry, with the fleece of golden hair brushed and smoothed 
and shining, with a knot of pate rose ribbon nestling in the 
soft maze, with a little gold chain round her neck, and a 
thin gold band round her plump arm. 

For the first time in her life she had been solicitous to 
look her very best. Her limpid eyes had gazed with deep 
and anxious interest into the old mirror on the wall, for 
many a year passed ignobly by, as unworthy even a pass- 
ing glance; for once without a murmur she had submit- 
ted the tangled masses of her locks, Samson-like, to any 
fate that awaited them ; and for once — tell it not again, 
oh, gentle reader ! — for once had the little, brown, moist 
hands been not only passed in and out of the hot water 
in the basin, but had actually, laboriously, and thorough- 
ly been cleansed to the finger-tips. 

One of these was now offered to Bellenden with all 
the grace of a little hostess. 

“ I saw you coming up,” she whispered. “ I saw you 
two sitting together in the dog-cart, so then I knew it 
was all right. Until I really saw you, you know, I 
hardly hoped — I mean I really did not think you could 
— I mean I did not know whether you had been in time 
or not.” 

“ I was only just in time.” 

“ Were you, really ? Should you have been too late in 
another minute ? ” 


A MERE CHILD . 


43 


“ Yes, I think so.” 

“ Only fancy! ” said Jerry, with large eyes. “And — 
and — supposing you had been, you would never have 
come ? ” 

“ No, indeed.” 

“ Only fancy ! What would you have done ? ” 

“ Stopped where I was.” 

“ Only fancy ! And never come up at all ? ” 

“ No, never,” said Bellenden, as solemnly as she. < 
Then there was a pause, on her part of satisfaction and 
relief, on his of wonder what was to come next. He ; 
was conscious of being both flattered and amused by 
Jerry. 

“ Did you tell Cecil about me ? ’’ was her next. And 
he fancied that even there, in that vast saloon, with - 
space on every side, her voice sank. 

“ I told him that we had met.” 

“ Did you say — how ? ” 

“No Jerry, I did not say — how.” 

“ Nor — nor where ?” 

“ No. Nor where.” 

“You are laughing at me, but you do not know Cecil. 

If he had heard all about — about it, you know — to-day, 
you know — I mean your startling me, and ” 

“And your crying.’’ 

“ And your mistaking me ” 

“ And your snubbing me.” 

“ And — and all ” 

“ And — and all,” assented Bellenden — “ our making 
up the quarrel, and becoming the best of friends, and 
fishing together, and walking home together, and con- 
spiring together to make this very Cecil do the thing we 
both wished — if he had known of all this, now tell me 
what would Cecil have said to it ?” 

“ I don’t know ; but ” — and there was a flash from a 


44 


A MERE CHILD. 


pair of unmistakably intelligent orbs — “ I know this, I 
would rather not tell him.” 

Bellenden nodded, “ VVe won’t tell him.” 

“ But I told granny, of course.” 

“ Oh, of course. But how is it,” continued the speak- 
er, “ how is it that Master Cecil commands such an 
amount of respect from his little cousin ? Let me into 
the secret, Jerry, won’t you ? ” 

“ Oh, I don’t know. I don’t know that there is any 
thing. Granny makes a fuss about Cecil. And he is 
very nice, you know. And his sisters think such a great, 
big, immense deal of him. They think there never was 
such a Cecil before. He is their only brother. Perhaps 
that’s it. Sisters always do think that of brothers, don’t 
they ? ” 

“ I wish I had a sister to think that of me.” 

“Have you not one? — not just a little one?” She 
was quite disappointed. 

“ Not even a little one. Not even a Jerry.” 

“ Well, I have none either, and no brothers, nor any 
body. However, I don’t mind,” recovering. “ I don’t 
care much about girls, anyway, and if I could not have 
boys, I’d as soon only have granny.” 

“You do not care much for your Raymond cousins, 
then?” 

“ Oh, yes. But they always do give themselves such 
airs to me ; and they talk French, and gabble about their 
governesses, and music-mistresses, and all that nonsense. 
They are well enough. But they can’t ride,” eagerly. 
“ They think they can ; and there is such a fuss about 
their horses, and their saddles, and their riding-habits ; 
but once they are on, they go jogging up and down, not 
a bit close to the horse ; and Ethel is in such a fright if 
her pony does but shy ever so little that she is in misery 
half the time ; and they think they have done wonders if 


A MERE CHILD. 


45 


they canter for half a mile at a time. I don’t care for 
such riding as that ! ” Jerry wound up with superlative 
scorn. 

“You like ‘forty minutes on the grass without a 
check ’ — eh ? ” 

“ I like just as much as ever I can get — that’s what I 
like. And to go — go — go like the wind. I am never 
tired. Ethel has to rest when she comes in, to lie down 
on a backboard, and not go out two days running.” 

“And what do they say to your style of perform- 
ance ? ” 

“Oh, I don’t know. Jim — that’s the groom — says he 
would like to come and be my groom here. And I shall 
have him, too — some day. He says he would like to 
take me to ride in the Row in London ; and we’d show 
’em how to do it. That was what Jim said,” rather con- 
scious of running on too fast. “ I am only repeating what 
he said, you know.” 

From which it will appear that Jerry was an artless lit- 
tle woman after all, with a very naive and transparent 
vanity, easily satisfied. 

“ Captain Bellenden,” she began again presently. 

“ How do you know I am a captain ? ” he interrupted. 
“ I only told you my name was Bellenden.” 

“ Well, I saw it on your portmanteau,” owned the lit- 
tle girl, truthfully ; but although she stuck to the truth, 
he saw her bite her lip, and was sorry he had asked the 
question. 

“ Oh, that was it ! And what were you going to say ? 
You were going to say something.” 

“ I was going to say — oh, I dare say I ought not to 
say it.” 

“ Oh, yes, I’m sure you ought to say it.” 

“It was only ” 

“ Only what ? ” 


46 


A MERE CHILD. 


“ Only ” 

“ Well, what ?” 

“About sisters,” said Jerry, as if she had said “about 
ghosts,” or some such contraband articles. 

“ Sisters — eh ? Well, but what about sisters ? ” He 
could not imagine anything very terrible to be said about 
sisters. 

“ It was just — whether — you would like to have any?” 

“ I should like it very much,” said he promptly. 

“ Would you ? Would you, really ? ” with eagerness. 

“ Really and truly.” 

“And — and — about how old ?” demanded his little 
companion with increased anxiety ; “ about how old ? ” 

“ Let me see,” said he pretending to reflect. “ Let me 
see. Well, I think, perhaps, about fifteen. Yes, I think 
about fifteen.” 

“ Fifteen ? That’s my age! Did you know ? No, of 
course you did not. But it is. I am just fifteen.” 

“ Indeed ? ” 

tl And — and — well ? ” 

“ About fifteen, and able to ride, and fish, and clamber 
up and down rocky banks, and make friends with casta- 
way strangers, and have enchanted castles all ready to 
invite them up to, and long, yellow curls for them to pull 
when they come,” and he was in the act of pulling the 
yellow curls before him, when the door opened, and Ce- 
cil Raymond entered. 


A MERE CHILD. 


47 


CHAPTER V. 

“ CAN YOU TELL THE MEANINGS OF FLOWERS ? ” 

He gave me a rose, 

And he said, “ Can you read 
The alphabet dewy-eyed Flora invented 
(So daintily tinted, and charmingly scented) 

To write over valley kncl mead ? ” 

It was just as well that Cecil did not see. 

He was a grave young man, with somewhat pompous 
notions on most subjects, and in particular very exact 
views with regard to propriety and decorum. 

Although he was fond of his own sisters, he never 
romped with them, nor made fun with them, nor gig- 
gled with them behind backs. His jests, when he made 
any, were solemn affairs, to be duly appreciated and re- 
corded — but they were not such jests as children love. 
Little people had no freemasonry with him. And, in 
consequence, however kind, and attentive, and consider- 
ate the elder brother and cousin might be, he was in 
their hearts, perhaps, more respected than beloved, and 
wild little Jerry drew a*way as by instinct from Bellen- 
den’s touch when the door opened. 

For herself, she was not in the least offended ; it 
needed a good deal to put Jerry on her dignity as she 
had been put that afternoon ; but she felt intuitively that 
Cecil would have looked askance upon the little bye-play. 

Accordingly she now stepped up to him with the best 
imitation of her grandmother’s reception manner which 
she could assume, and, moreover, with her small round 
face so demurely made up that he must have been a 
rogue indeed who would have ventured to associate it 
with pulling of curls or the like. 


48 


A MERE CHILD . 


Bellenden’s gay words were ringing in her ears never- 
theless, and she was fain to have some more of them, and 
to get away from young Raymond as soon as she could ; 
although, up to the present time, the annual visit of her 
cousin had been something to be looked forward to and 
counted upon, and he himself had been quite the per- 
sonage of the hour. Now, and all at once, he was cast 
from his pedestal. He was no longer the first ; and, 
from being the first, he had not even descended to a sec- 
ondary place, but was hurled to the depths, a nobody, an 
incubus; all that the little lady by his side wanted being 
to cut short his opening sentences, and slip back to the 
seat in the window, wherein sat her new friend, quiet 
enough now, looking down upon the flower-beds below, 
and thinking of nothing less than of making an impres- 
sion upon a susceptible, childish heart. 

Jerry thought he looked beautiful sitting there, his 
handsome profile distinctly cut against the sky outside, 
and his fine easy figure half in, half out of the open case- 
ment, as his chin rested on his arm outside. She did 
not know how, but she felt — for she was a perceptive lit- 
tle creature — that there was a difference even between 
the suit of modest black worn alike by Cecil and by this 
stranger. Cecil was particular to a degree about his 
clothes; but, somehow, the tout ensemble of the other 
was just missed by him, and Jerry knew it. Poor little 
innocent thing ! Her heart gave its first throb of a new 
and unknown nature as she watched that sharply-out- 
lined, strongly-made, graceful form sitting so quietly 
there in .the twilight. All in a moment, as we have said, 
Cecil became a burden intolerable. 

“ Well, Jerry, and what have you been about lately ?” 
began he, as unconscious as a babe, and in the usual com- 
prehensive style wherewith relations and intimates are 
fond of accosting each other after absence. “Riding 


A MERE CHILD. 49 

much — eh ? How’s the Flying Dutchman ? Or have 
you got a new pony by this time?” 

“ Macalister is looking out for one. He says it will 
be best to wait forthe Falkirk Tryst,” replied Jerry, hop- 
ing that the subject was now disposed of. 

“The Falkirk Tryst? Oh, I remember. A sort of 
market — eh?” and Cecil settled down upon it comfort- 
ably in spite of her concluding tone. “ And so you are 
to get one, then ? ” 

“ Macalister says the best-bred animals are to be had 
there.” 

“ £ The best-bred animals ! ’ That smacks of the stable, 
Miss Jerry — doesn’t it, eh ? ” 

“ He says so,” said Jerry, coloring more deeply than 
was her wont, and not disposed to pooh-pooh the cor- 
rection, but rather to offer an excuse. “ Macalister said 
so. I only repeat what he said, that you might know.” 

“ I see,” replied her cousin, kindly, for he had not 
meant to vex. “And this Falkirk Tryst — let me see — • 
when does it come off ? ” 

“ In October,” said Jerry, shortly. What could the 
Falkirk Tryst or anything about it matter to Cecil, that 
he should worry her about it just then ? She made a 
restive movement to escape, but in vain. 

“Well, the Dutchman has carried you gallantly for 
many a day,” pursued her tormenter, heavily conversa- 
tional, “ so you will have to be compassionate toward 
him now. What are you going to do with him? Is he 
to be the wood pony, or for the moor? Or will you sell 
him?” 

Here Mrs. Campbell entered, and made her way to 
Captain Bellenden’s side. 

“ What is to become of him ? ” pursued Cecil. 

(“ How tiresome ! Now he will begin talking to 
grandmamma, and I shan’t have another word from him. 

4 


50 


A MERE CHILD. 


What a shame! ” muttered the child to herself, little ac- 
customed to be thwarted even in a trifle. “ How Cecil 
does prose ! How provoking and stupid he is ! ”) 

“ What is to become of him ? ” demanded Cecil for 
the third time. 

But he never knew, for dinner was announced at the 
moment, and Jerry was storming inwardly with baffled 
indignation and righteous wrath. 

(“ There, now, I knew how it would be. I knew that 
if grandmamma was standing away there with him when 
dinner was announced, she would tell him to take her 
in, though I know she ought to have had Cecil. She 
ought to have had Cecil, of course. She should have 
left Captain Bellenden for me, and then he ^ould have 
come up to me, and offered me his arm — oh, delight- 
ful.") 

She had never taken anybody’s arm in her life. Truth 
to tell, she had been casting about in her mind, ever 
since she had seen Bellenden’s portmanteau safe in the 
hall, the chances of this great event happening to her 
now. Hitherto she had been glad enough to avoid the 
formal late dinner when her grandmother had had guests 
at Inchmarew. She had either made her appearance 
with the dessert, or had more commonly chosen to run 
about till bedtime, and then have some supper brought 
up to her old nursery, by these means escaping both the 
company and the evening frock. She had, however, on 
the present occasion carefully intimated her intention of 
dining late in future, and Mrs. Campbell, in common 
with the rest of the household, had been too glad to see 
in the change the dawn of advancing womanhood to 
make any sort of demur. 

So much arranged, one soul-absorbing anxiety had 
occupied the little girl’s mind, and that was in reference 
to her being handed to the dining-room by Bellenden. 


A MERE CHILD . . 


51 


! The more she had thought about it the more eager 
and anxious she had become, as was Jerry’s way when- 
ever any desire once took possession of her little excita- 
ble breast. 

To take his arm! To step grandly along before every- 
body, like a real grown-up young lady — how enchanting. 

She did not stop to remember that it had never struck 
her as enchanting, but rather in a reverse light, hitherto. 
It would, at any rate, be simply heavenly now. 

And of course it was her right to lead the way and do 
honor to the stranger guest in her own castle. Granny 
had often told her that she ought to prepare to take her 
place as mistress and head of all ere long — so perhaps, 
indeed most certainly, granny would think this a good 
opportunity for her to begin. It would also instruct 
Captain Bellenden in her position and her rights, and 
make his blunder of the afternoon all the more astonish- 
ing and ridiculous to his recollection. 

He might perform his part of the ceremony with a twin- 
kle in his eye, and Jerry would not have freed him from 
a sly reminiscence as he and she marched through the 
long gallery together; but, carry it off as he might, he 
could not fail to feel a little foolish, and might be trusted 
to be as discreet as herself before spectators. 

All of this had been carefully thought out during the 
putting on of the white frock and rose-colored sash, and 
there had been just enough uncertainty about the desired 
programme being carried out to make Cecil’s detention 
doubly irksome and ill-timed — since the fact of her being 
beside him and away from the other was, she could not 
help fearing, sure to tell against her. 

It might, or it might not, have done so. The proba- 
bility is that Mrs. Campbell gave the subject no thought 
at all, and as a matter-of-course went in, as she had 
always done before, with her principal guest ; but it was 


52 


A MERE CHILD . 


Cecil’s doing in Jerry’s eyes ; and, as the naughty little 
girl had never yet learned to control or conceal her feel- 
ings, a very sulky and unresponsive companion the poor 
fellow had, and one who would have gladly given the 
arm she held a good hard pinch, instead of delicately 
touching it with the tips of her fingers, as she knew she 
ought to do. 

Granny perceived that something was wrong directly 
they emerged into the light, for the lamps were all lit in 
the dining-room, and revealed the bonny brow black as 
night, and the rosebud mouth unmistakably drawn down 
at the corners — and for the life of her the kind old lady 
could not think what was at the bottom of it ; but pres- 
ently she observed with relief that there was an effort to 
throw off the cloud ; and when at length, though not for 
awhile, in response to some merry story told across the 
table for her especial benefit, Jerry’s own bell-like laugh 
rang out again, high and clear, and sweet as a young 
bird’s, she was so rejoiced to hear it that she forgot to 
note that the transformation was neither due to any 
efforts of her own nor of her grandson. 

To Cecil, indeed, Jerry was all shoulder. 

She had no eyes nor ears for him until after that laugh 
had brought her out of her mood ; and Bellenden him- 
self could not have been conscious of the blazing radi- 
ance of the eyes which so continuously sought his, and 
of their ready response to every approach he made. 

“ By Jove, she will be a beauty one of these days ! ” 
he told himself. “ By Jove, Master Raymond, you had 
better be well forward in the field before more of the 
pack open cry ! The little heiress will be a prize worth 
the running for. Had I been a dozen years younger — 
but, however, I am not a marrying man, or I should 
have been done for long ago. Luckily, I don’t need to 
go heiress-hunting either.” 


A MERE CHILD. 


53 


And so it was that he merely felt pleased and a little 
touched by the sparkling young face opposite, pleased 
to find himself still capable of attracting, and touched 
by the artlessness with which the attraction was con- 
fessed. “ A dear little thing,” he owned in the end ; “ and 
upon my word I said no more than the truth when I 
told her I wished I had just such another little sister.” 

They had a merry evening after that. 

The billiard-table was so atrociously bad that Captain 
Bellenden, who was a noted player, found it humorous 
in the extreme never to have the ghost of an idea where 
his ball would go, nor what would be the effect of his 
finest strokes. He roared with good humored laughter 
when his simplest cannons missed, and when pockets 
that should have been certainties jilted him in the most 
barefaced manner. His mirth was so spontaneous and 
infectious that no one could resist it ; and, without know- 
ing in the least why, granny and grand-daughter laughed 
almost as much and as heartily as he, while Cecil, who 
would have felt aggrieved and discomfited had anyone 
else made such fun of the whole, consoled his dignity with 
the reflection that Bellenden had never been used to 
any but the most unexceptionable of billiard-tables, and 
that he must therefore be considered as highly indulgent 
in that he condescended to handle a cue at all upon this 
occasion. 

“ But why should we have it all to ourselves ? ” sug- 
gested the gay guardsman at last. “ Pray, Mrs. Camp- 
bell, join us. You have been so good in coming here, 
and I know my little friend,” with a glance at Jerry, “ is 
longing for a game. What shall it be ? Pool ? Or, 
let me see, I know the thing she would like. Battle, 
that’s it ? Did you ever play battle, Jerry ? Come and 
play with me, then. Beg your grandmamma to take a 
hand, and we shall be two to two.” 


54 


A MERE CHILD. 


Perhaps he was beginning to tire of the other play, 
perhaps it was in mere compassion to the eager little 
face so wistfully following its progress, that the sugges- 
tion was made ; but, at any rate, it was received with 
rapture. 

“ I can play battle, I can, indeed,” almost shrieked the 
little girl in her excitement. “ I have played it at Uncle 
Raymond’s ; we played it the very last time I was there ; 
and Ethel, and Alicia, and I all played ; didn’t we, Cecil ? 
Don’t you remember, Cecil ?” Cecil’s misdemeanor was 
by this time forgotten. “ Oh, granny, do say ‘ Yes,’ ” 
proceeded the small speaker, dancing in front of the 
smiling and indulgent granny. “ Do get out of your 
chair, and come, there’s a dear granny; and if you don’t 
know the game, we can all teach you,” and then, as granny 
obediently rose, off bustled Geraldine to the stand, took 
down the cues, and examined their tips — the half of 
these were off — selected a very narrow one for herself, 
and a very broad one for granny, by way of granny’s 
being the novice, and finally stood by Bellenden’s side, 
the picture of happiness and pride. 

All of this was diverting to people willing to be 
diverted, and benevolent ; and then, behold ! what should 
appear but that granny, who knew nothing about the re- 
quirements of billiard-rooms and tables, could neverthe- 
less handle her cue, and hit a ball on the desired side, 
and not be overcome with astonishment when it went 
the way it should go ! She was in fact a far superior 
performer to the prancing Jerry, and the latter would 
have been mortified, as well as amazed, by the prowess 
of so unexpected a rival, had granny’s proficiency not 
placed it beyond a doubt that for the remainder of the 
evening the old lady must stick to Cecil for a partner, 
leaving the more accomplished Bellenden for herself. 

Do what she would, Jerry could not bring back her balls. 


A MERE CHILD. 


55 


Her instructor was good-nature itself; and he cheered 
and consoled, and with infinite skill repaired the damage 
done their side as fast as she could inflict it ; but, never- 
theless, they lost oftener than they won, and she resolved 
to practice in secret, and never to run the risk of doing 
herself such discredit in his eyes again. 

Things brightened afresh, however, thereafter. 

Captain Bellenden performed feats — feats which, it is 
true, did not invariably come off as they were intended, 
and which none but an expert would have ventured 
upon at all ; but he showed how he could have done 
this and that, and Cecil vouched for the fact that he 
had actually seen the complication worked, so that it 
was almost as good as beholding for themselves. 

Jerry’s bedtime had long gone by ; but it was not in 
fond granddame’s heart to put an end to her darling’s 
pleasure. She so seldom either wished or cared to sit 
up late, and it was so evidently a delight on this one 
rare occasion, that, “ It cannot harm her for once and 
away,” thought the old lady. 

Alack ! Granny did not take into consideration that 
there are two kinds of harm. As to that to which she 
alluded, she was, perhaps, right ; but about the other, 
oh, Jerry, pretty nestling, why were you not sleeping 
soundly in your little bed hours ago, dreaming of brawl- 
ing brook and leaping trout, or of wild wet gallops along 
the sea road, rather than watching, with eyes all ablaze, 
and hearkening, with ears all in a tingle, to every thing 
this too delightful stranger did and said ? 

He left the next day. 

It rained, as foretold, and he was pressed to remain, 
but did not do so. 

Personally he would gladly enough have stayed in 
such good quarters, and sent over the note to Kincraig 
which young Raymond urged him to write ; but he did 


56 


A MERE CHILD. 


not feel that the thing could be done. That sort of 
freedom with a house to which he had only been re- 
ceived under stress of adverse circumstances he was not 
the man to take, and with a firmness which Mrs. Camp- 
bell in her heart applauded, and which even Cecil felt to 
be correct and gentlemanly, he adhered to his resolu- 
tion. 

Would he then return? Would he pay them a real 
visit ? Shoot their moor ? And in particular have 
some sea-fishing on the bank below the house, to the 
description of which he had listened with so much ap- 
preciation ? The fishing was going On nightly at pres- 
ent. 

Granny spoke ; but Jerry looked a thousand urgen- 
cies, and her silence was even more effectual than the 
other’s pleadings. Bellenden really hardly knew how to 
manage it, for his time was already mapped out for the 
autumn ; but somehow he could not resist. In his heart 
he thought he knew whom he could throw over, and 
from whence he could scrimp a few days. His doubtful 
brow cleared, and he gave the promise required. They 
were really too kind, and the inducements altogether 
were really too tempting ; he would certainly come, and 
would write from Kincraig. 

In a few days the letter came. 

It was all that Cecil, but perhaps not quite all that 
Jerry had hoped for. She, poor child, had been fever- 
ishly expectant as every post came in, and many a boat 
had she watched crossing the loch, unknown to all be- 
side. She had fancied he might come at any time, and 
the days had seemed long and profitless, though hope 
had started afresh with each returning morn. 

In reality, Bellenden wrote quite wonderfully soon for 
him. He had a very pleasant recollection of a charming 
little adventure, and was quite willing to follow it up 


A MERE CHILD. 


57 


and see more of his new friends ; but long days on the 
moor are not conducive to letter-writing, and he did not 
quite know what to say or to fix. 

At last, however, he could make a definite proposal, 
and it was one which, as we have said, Cecil found 
agreeable enough. He did not primarily offer his own 
return to Inchmarew, but in the name of his host he re- 
quested young Raymond’s company at Kincraig, where 
there was a bachelor party assembled, and just one room 
vacant. Raymond was asked to come and fill it. 

The postscript, however, was of more importance to 
one doleful listener. 

“ If you can come, and if Mrs. Campbell will permit 
me, I will do myself the pleasure of accompanying you 
back to Inchmarew on your return, and will spend two 
nights with you.” 

So it ran. 

“Only two nights!” exclaimed poor Jerry, in such 
heartrending accents that both her auditors laughed. 

“ He would be flattered if he could hear you, my lit- 
tle coz,” cried Cecil, gaily, for he was in spirits to be gay. 
“ It would not do to tell him, or his head might be 
turned. But I think I had better go,” he added, turn- 
ing to his grandmother. “ I think it would hardly be 
civil to refuse, and I should have had to shoot some 
time or other at Kincraig anyway.” 

“And Archie Kincraig will have to shoot here,” re- 
joined Mrs. Campbell, well versed in moor etiquette. 
“ Had you not better bring him back with you, also, 
Cecil ? ” 

“ Oh, no,” cried Jerry, interposing with a frown. “ Oh, 
no , granny. Oh, how can you say so ? ” 

“ Why not ? ” Granny looked, as she felt, surprised ; 
for, as a rule, the said Archie was rather a favorite with 
her young granddaughter than otherwise, and was one 


53 


A MERE CHILD. 


of the few whose welcome at Inchmarew was always as- 
sured. 

“ Oh, we don’t want him,” Jerry said now, however. 
“ He will only be in the way. Let him come at another 
time — later on, when there is — nobody else. We don’t 
want so many at one time, do we, Cecil ?” 

“ He could not leave his own men if we did,” said Ce- 
cil. “You see, Bellenden says there is a party” — his 
own eyes brightening at the word, for at his age to be 
invited to make one of a party of bachelors is a distinc- 
tion, and he remembered the Ascot week, and thought 
on what a much higher level he should stand now than 
he had done then — “ no doubt the party will be kept up 
by relays through the next few weeks,” he continued. 
“I, am only surprised that he allows Bellenden to leave 
so soon, for he is not likely to have many such crack 
shots.” 

He did not know that the especial crack shot referred 
to was not over and above well pleased either with his 
moor or his company. Bellenden had reflected that in 
all probability the shooting retained by the Campbells 
was much better than that let to his host; that the peo- 
ple got together in the shooting-box were a so-so scratch 
lot, not to his taste ; and, moreover, that the cookery 
was tasteless, and his bedroom small and stuffy — so that 
the recollection of his evening at the old castle on the 
other side of the loch had grown pleasanter day by day 
in contrast to his present surroundings. 

To shoot with Cecil Raymond, who, if he were but a 
boy and a priggish boy, was still a gentleman and a nice 
sort of fellow — (whereas the fellows assembled at Kin- 
craig were, as a rule, of another sort) — to dine with the 
dear old lady, who had made herself quite charming to 
him, and with whom he had plenty of topics in common, 
for she was by no means as completely out of the world 


A MERE CHILD. 


.59 


he moved in, for all the recluse life she was leading now, 
as were the youths at Kincraig ; and to frolic with the 
pretty, apt, responsive little heiress, the jolly mischiev- 
ous sprite who was so unmistakably his chief friend of 
all, would, Captain Bellenden felt, suit him much bet- 
ter than this forced intercourse with a second-rate set of 
rather rowdy bachelors. 

Accordingly he had made his host — as he well knew 
how to do — invite young Raymond, and had added to 
the invitation his own postscript. 

All went well. 

Cecil certainly shone by contrast at the shooting-lodge. 
He might not appear to advantage when contrasted 
with Bellenden, and with Bellenden only ; but he was 
several cuts above Archie Kincraig’s friends, and this 
he could not help himself perceiving. 

It seemed only natural to him that he and Bellenden 
should herd together as it were, in consequence, that they 
should fall to talking confidentially, imparting to each 
other their verdicts and grievances, and seeking one an- 
other’s sympathy. Bellenden owned that the company 
was not to his mind— Cecil turned up hi^nose at it still 
more. Bellenden whispered that the sport was bad — 
Cecil called it abominable. Bellenden suggested that 
they should be off on the day but one following— Cecil 
despatched a messenger to stop the early boat, in order 
that they might start the first thing after breakfast. 
When the two arrived at Inchmarew they had advanced 
in intimacy by seven-league strides. 

On this occasion Jerry was not nearly so demonstrative 
as she had been before. She had had time to think, and 
to be shy of her own thoughts. She, too, had been grow- 
ing fast within the last two or three days, growing even 
since Cecil’s departure, growing in a strange new knowl- 
edge which had to be kept all to herself. She was going 


6o 


A MERE CHILD. 


now to be careful, and not to run the risk of Cecil’s teas- 
ing, and granny’s smiles, any more. 

She was already dressed and waiting, however, when 
the dog-cart drove up to the door, and had a pretty 
bunch of flowers at her throat ; and as she came some- 
what soberly forward to do her part of welcome, Cecil 
thought he had never beheld his young cousin to greater 
advantage. 

Perhaps Bellenden was not quite of the same opinion. 
Perhaps he would have preferred a step and carriage less 
sedate, a countenance less composed. Certain it is that 
he experienced a momentary check, a feeling of surprise 
and doubt, and that his own manner shadowed this forth 
on the instant. 

But presently he saw through it only too well. It was 
but a passing womanliness, an evanescent emotion of the 
bashful kind, and it soon gave way. Ere half an hour 
had elapsed, the two were chattering and bandying jest 
and repartee as freely together as they had ever done, 
and he was no more on his guard. 

At dinner-time, or rather at dressing-time, he found 
flowers in his room. 

So did Cecil ; for Jerry, with this new-born touch of 
modesty about her would make no distinctions ; but her 
cousin did not know that his were of the baser, Bellen- 
den’s of the choicer sort. He came down with a rose-bud 
in his button-hole. Bellenden had selected a spray of 
purple heliotrope, and was whispering to the fair giver 
something which bore evident reference to the same, 
when they were interrupted. Her cheeks were not less 
scarlet than the scarlet blossoms on her breast as she 
hung her head to listen, and Cecil might have seen — but 
Cecil saw nothing. 

When the young man had formed his ideas on any 
given subject, it required an agency little short of super- 


A MERE CHILD. 


6 1 


natural to uproot them, and his calm conviction of Ger- 
aldine’s extreme youth and devotion to himself carried 
him through all evidence of a contrary nature. 

Jerry was a nice little girl. By and by lie should per- 
haps marry her. That was the sum total of his thoughts. 

As for there being any thing between the magnificent 
Bellenden, and the little, wild, unformed Highland las- 
sie, the very idea would have been absurd and preposter- 
ous in his eyes — at this time, at least. 

He therefore had no hesitation about walking straight 
up the room, and, as we have said, neither saw nor heard 
anything. 

“Have you said ‘ Thank you’ for your pretty bou- 
quet ?” inquired Bellenden, with an air of having done 
so himself. ‘ 4 And can you interpret the hidden lan- 
guage of flowers, Raymond ? Because unless you can 
you are not worthy to receive them, and so I have been 
saying to your cousin.” 

So that was what he had been saying. 

Looking at him, and at Geraldine, and at the piece of 
fragrant heliotrope, whose amorous significance young 
Cecil all at once called to mind, it did just occur to the 
latter, unsuspicious as he had been half a minute before, 
that perhaps, all things considered, it might have been 
as well to have left the words unsaid. 


62 


A MERE CHILD . 


CHAPTER VI. 

THE PIECE OF WHITE HEATHER. 

“ For whom should I the garland make, 

But her who joys the gift to take, 

And boasts she wears it for my sake ? ” 

But Jerry, as before, found nothing amiss. 

She went to bed that night with the foolish whisper 
tingling in her ears and buzzing through her little head. 
She mentally resolved to secrete that piece of heliotrope 
— it was sure to be lying somewhere about Bellenden’s 
room in the morning — and keep it forever for his sake. 
She sat and gazed into the depths of the quaint old mir- 
ror, now at last appreciated, the while she twisted up the 
golden curls and hung them this way and that way about 
her fair forehead ; by many a device she sought to catch 
glimpses here and there of nose, and chin, and mouth, 
wondering and seeking to divine of what account they 
were — those all unknown, unexplored possessions of hers 
— in his eyes ! Did he think her pretty ? Would he have 
liked her to be prettier, or taller ? Would he have 
thought more of her had she been as tall as Ethel or 
Alicia? Would he have said to them the same pleasant 
things he was forever saying to her ? 

And the vain little heart counted over one by one her 
treasures as she yet longed for more, and the little white- 
robed figure grew cold and chilly as she sat there, a small 
spot in the great dim bedroom, thinking and thinking, 
and never a bit the wiser for it. 

She had softly got out of the bed and relit her candle 
after the maid had left, and it was long ere the faint light 
it shed was finally extinguished ; but at length the show 


A MERE CHILD. 


63 


was over, and in she crept again beneath the silken 
coverlet, courting sleep, to find that he had taken to 
himself wings and fled, only to return by fits and starts 
to her poor little hot, feverish pillow. 

The following morning Cecil and his friend were to be 
off to the moor at break or nearly at break of day, and 
Jerry had been told that her “ Good-night ” to them 
might stand for her “Good-morning” also, since they 
would be miles away among the heather ere her eyes had 
unclosed next day. 

But could she sleep ? While all the stir was going on, 
while dogs were barking and keepers shouting, and the 
breakfast bustling along the passages, the whole place, 
as it were, agog without and within ? Was it likely ? 

It would be excuse sufficient in her grandmother’s 
mind that she had been aroused by all the noise and 
commotion, and that, once thoroughly awakened, she 
could not help getting up and coming down to preside at 
the breakfast-table. Neither granny nor Cecil could 
scold once the thing were done — though the artful little 
minx had the wit to keep her own counsel beforehand — 
and accordingly, when daylight began to spread across 
the heavens^and long, long before she need have been 
thinking about it, up she rose, stealthily bathed her 
burning cheeks, on tiptoe performed her hasty toilet, and 
hushed even her gentlest movements if a step went by, 
lest perchance they should betray her. It would have 
been terrible to have been found out with her purpose 
unachieved. 

The breakfast was to be on the table at half-past six 
o’clock, and by six Jerry was fully dressed and all impa- 
tience, so that a weary half-hour had to be dragged 
through by her poor little fasting frame and tumultuous 
spirit first. 

She sat down to wait by the open window. 


64 


A MERE CHILD. 


It was a heavenly morning, warm even at that early 
hour, and breathlessly still. Not a ripple stirred the 
glassy waters of the loch beneath, nor moved the few 
white fleecy cloudlets which were scarcely visible, hung 
high in the blue expanse overhead. 

The tide was at its lowest, and flocks of sea-birds 
crowded the sandy bays and headlands, wading, feeding, 
and chattering. 

A herring “ skow ” was hanging out its brown sail to 
dry close to the shore, yet not so close but that its long 
straight shadow lay upon the motionless water beneath. 
A wreath of blue smoke arising from the deck was also 
mirrored in the water, showing that others were astir as 
well as the inmates of the castle hard by, and presently 
the little watcher from her turret could perceive the 
fishermen themselves upon the deck, busy in preparations 
for the day’s work. 

How she wished that she and Bellenden and Cecil had 
been going aboard the little vessel, going to sail away 
and away on the blue water, when the in-flowing tide 
should raise breeze enough to waft her on her course, and 
when they could hang over the side, by and by, drawing 
in the shy cod, or the silvery whiting, or whatever came 
first. Cecil had promised that she should go with them 
the very first night he took his friend out, but it could 
not be that night, she knew ; and now that the shooting 
had begun in real earnest — and there had been a great 
deal of talking about it the evening before, and arrange- 
ments for shooting this ground and that ground, which 
betokened every day being filled up, even though Cap- 
tain Bellenden had underpressure extended the proposed 
length of his stay from two to four or five days — now that 
all this was in store, who could say when a spare night 
would be found for the whiting bank. 

The fine weather had evidently set in, when Cecil 


A MERE CHILD . 


65 


would certainly prefer shooting to sea-fishing, and shoot- 
ing meant being out very late, and returning home very 
tired, and quite disinclined to stir a foot outside again. 
For a great part of the Inchmarew moor lay at a distance 
from the castle, and moreover, like most Argyleshire 
moors, there was a considerable area to be traversed if 
any thing like good sport were to be obtained. Young 
Raymond was often so weary at the close of the day as 
to be fit for nothing but his bed after supper. Supper 
would be somewhere between nine and ten o’clock, and 
was not called, or thought of, as dinner, as at some places. 
Mrs. Campbell, if alone, would have had her dinner at 
its usual time, and Cecil would sup by himself when he 
came in ; but if he had others with him the old lady 
would join the party for the sake of sociability, and turn 
the whole into a merry meal, though she would not allow 
a succession of courses at that hour, and still adhered to 
the old-fashioned, homely name in word as well as in 
deed. 

Now, by half-past nine o’clock Jerry ought to be safe 
and sound tucked up within her little bed ; her hour for 
leaving the drawing-room was nine, and she was allowed 
half an hour for undressing — and never but on that one 
occasion of the billiard match had the evening summons 
been allowed to pass unheeded. Something in her grand- 
mother’s look had sent the little girl quietly off the night 
before. Jerry, we have said, was a child of quick per- 
ceptions, and, without a word having been said, she 
understood perfectly that granny was not entirely pleased 
about something or other, and that it would be wiser not 
to risk any advances just then. Her conscience was just 
shaky enough to give rise to an unwonted timidity with 
both granny and Cecil, and she was inclined to be concil- 
iatory and deferential, and every thing that they could 
wish, in the hope of being kept in favor. 


66 


A MERE CHILD. 


But oh! this supper. She had heard the order given, 
and the hour named, and ever since what tortures of anx- 
iety had been hers ! To say any thing about the matter 
beforehand would be most certainly to spoil all, since on 
some points her grandmother could make a stand even 
against herself, and Jerry’s bedtime had been one of those 
points on which the old lady had, with the single excep- 
tion above narrated, been inflexible. Jerry had weakly, 
as she now considered, given in about it at the first — the 
truth being that she had not cared about the matter, since 
evenings alone with granny had not been amusing enough 
to excite an effort, and neither had Cecil’s friends, when 
they had been present, done much toward public enliven- 
ment. They had usually remained in the dining-room or 
gone off to the smoking-room, even if they had returned 
tolerably early from the moor — and on other days she had 
not seen them at all. Then granny’s visitors had been 
wont to sit solemnly round, and yarn, or play the piano, 
and talk in whispers. There had been no games, no fun, 
no any thing. Even granny, herself, who was not a bit 
too old for these, had owned she got on better with 
young folks than with her own contemporaries. 

It was not then to be supposed that they could be of 
any sort of value to the fourteen or fifteen year-old little 
girl, and she had never experienced either hopes or fears 
connected with them. 

Captain Bellenden, was, oh ! how different. He had 
talked to her, told her stories, asked all about herself, 
and her likings and dislikings, and confided about him- 
self and his likings and dislikings. She had got to know 
a great deal about him, and felt as if he had taken pains 
to know about her. They had had a long ramble during 
the previous afternoon, and she had shown him her gar- 
dens, her grounds, her stables and kennels, her home-farm 
and dairy, and several of her favorite haunts. He had 


A MERE CHILD. 


67 


seemed to care to see them all, and to hear about them 
all* He had seemed to like everything about Inchma- 
revv, and presently he had produced a little sketch which 
he had taken of the castle turret from a point Jugh up 
on theKincraig moor, and which he had thought ii would 
please its little mistress to possess. Her surprise and 
gratitude had touched him, and, in presenting it, he had 
allowed himself to say another of those pretty sayings 
which he would only have ventured on with such a 
child. 

Here, we may just remark, for the enlightenment of 
our readers, that Bellenden was not a flirting man, and, 
curiously enough, had never been in love in his life. Per- 
haps the world had opened its arms too wide ^o him — it 
does sometimes. 

But here was a pleasant little plaything, with whom 
he might be as pleasant as he chose in return, and he had 
had no fears, and meant no harm. He had, moreover, 
found Jerry’s companionship so preferable to that of the 
Kincraig party, none of whom were of his set, or knew 
his haunts, or could talk his talk, that he had been ready 
to make still more of her than he might have done other- 
wise, and had, in consequence, wrought infinitely more 
damage. 

She was now full of him, cared only for his notice, 
burned only to be in his presence. 

Well, she had secured the breakfast time anyway, and 
more, had secured it for herself. Granny absent, Bellen- 
den would have no one to claim his attention but her- 
self (for he did not greatly favor Cecil when others were 
by), besides which, Cecil would be sure to be pretty fully 
occupied with the business in hand, the calls on him 
made by one and another, the bustle of preparation, and 
the start. She knew how it would be with him. For 
once and again ere now she had got up to this early 


68 


A MERE CHILD. 


shooting breakfast, on the hot August days, when it was 
a novelty, and had let her loose to run about for a while 
before the sun was too high — and she meant to make the 
most of those occasions now, should a remark be passed 
on her appearing. 

None was — of an adverse nature. 

Bellenden, indeed, looked surprised, but it was mere 
genuine astonishment, quite untinged with reproach. 

“ You are a good girl !” he exclaimed, heartily. “ Are 
you always up with the lark, like this ? By Jove, you 
ought to be coming with us. How you would enjoy it ! 
I wish we had thought of that before — but perhaps it is 
not too late, now. What do you say? Will you come ?” 

“ Oh-h-h! ” Jerry drew in a breath, and could say no 
more. 

“ I’ll take care of you if your cousin sees no objection,” 
proceeded he. “ I dare say there is a hill pony some- 
where that could be pressed into your service, and if you 
grew tired by the middle of the day, you could be sent 
home with a keeper. What do you think ? ” 

“ Think ! Why, of course I could have a pony, and of 
course I could go, if only granny and Cecil will let me,” 
almost sobbed Geraldine, trembling with excitement and 
anxiety. “ Oh, if they only will ! But I am afraid they 
never, never will. Granny has a perfect horror of ‘ shoot- 
ing ladies,’ as she calls them.” 

“ But one day on the moor could hardly turn you into 
a ‘shooting lady,’ or else I don’t think I should ask for it 
myself,” quoth Bellenden. “ I think your grandmamma 
might allow it just for once,” and as, apart from his de- 
sire to please her, he experienced a feeling that her com- 
pany would be an agreeable addition to that of the young 
Oxonian, he spoke with an earnestness which showed he 
meant to be taken at his word. 

“What is it you are in doubt about, Bellenden ? ” said 


A MERE CHILD. 69 

Cecil, entering at the moment ; “ any thing I can get 
you ?” 

“ Why, yes ; get permission for this little lady to ride 
alongside of us on the moor. Don’t you think she 
might ? She would be in no one’s way ; and I dare say 
she is quite as good for a long day among the grouse as 
the best of us.” 

“ Impossible !” said Cecil, with a look of amazement. 
“ My grandmother would never hear of such a thing. 
Why, Jerry, surely you did not propose it ? Was that 
why you got up ? ” 

“ No, indeed ,” cried Jerry, almost in tears; “ indeed I 
never thought of it, Cecil. Really and truthfully I did 
not. I only got up to see you off. You know,” she 
added, coloring and hesitating ever so little, “ you know 
I do often see you off.” 

“ Not very often. But — well ?” 

“ And Captain Bellenden thought that — that perhaps 
I might go, too, if granny and you did not mind.” 

“ My grandmother would most certainly object. She 
would never hear of it,” said Cecil to him. 

“ But, really, would she not ? Ladies do go out, you 
know; and — and ” 

“ Oh, yes ; some ladies do, certainly. Not those of our 
family,” said Cecil, with all the stiffness of the Raymonds, 
dead and alive, on the subject; “it is the last thing we 
should ever wish them to do.” 

“ She is such a child,” murmured Bellenden, apart to 
him, “ and different from other children, too. She must 
have but few pleasures in this lonely place ; why deny 
one on the mere score of propriety ?” 

“ You own it would be improper ? ” 

“ Not at all, for a little girl like her. It would be dif- 
ferent if she were a few years older. At present it could 
surely do her no harm.” 


70 


A MERE CHILD. 


“ Oh, no 1 harm,’ I dare say. However it is not for 
me to say either * yes ’ or £ no.’ I do not think my grand- 
mother at all likely to consent ; but, of course, Jerry can 
ask her 

“ And may I say you will take care of me ? ” Jerry 
was on the wing instantaneously. 

“ No — say I will,” cried Bellenden, laughing. And 
somehow Cecil thought of the heliotrope as he looked at 
him, and from him to Geraldine. 

It proved that he knew his grandmother best. She 
was shocked, almost incredulous, could hardly believe 
that a man who knew the world as Captain Bellenden 
did could have made such a proposition, and assured his 
messenger with many an ominous shake of the head that 
it was no compliment to her at her age to be considered 
too young to be at all in the way by young men who 
wanted to smoke, and talk, and shoot. If Captain Bel- 
lenden thought of her in that light it meant that she was 
to be no restraint upon them, and that they might go on 
just as freely together as though she were not there ; and 
how would she like that ? She little knew how uncom- 
fortable it would make her feel. Young women who re- 
spected themselves should always be a restraint after a 
fashion upon young men, and Jerry was really growing to " 
be a young woman, now, and ought to feel as one. 

She took it very ill of Captain Bellenden, the old lady 
further proceeded, to have mooted such an idea, an idea 
that but for him would never have entered Jerry’s head 
— and, indeed, she had meant to tell Jerry to be a little 
more careful, and not to run on quite so fast with her 
tongue when Bellenden was by, in case he took it into 
his mind that she was wilder and more untamed than 
she really was ; this suggestion of his showed that her 
caution would have been a wise one — and so on, and so 
on, until the poor little girl, ashamed, aggrieved, and 


A MERE CHILD. 


7 1 

bitterly repentant, all at once broke out into an agony of 
sobs and tears, and rushed from the room, seeking only 
to be unseen and unspoken to any more. 

Go down again ? Not for worlds. Her own chamber, 
and behind a fast-locked door, was the one place for her 
now. 

“ It is of no use waiting for Geraldine,” quoth Cecil, 
calmly rising at last to go. “ I expect she has been or- 
dered back to bed. She is an excitable little thing, and 
had no business to be up at all at this hour. As to her 
going with us, I knew my grandmother would never hear 
of it.” 

“ Poor child, I hope I have not got her into a scrape,” 
replied Bellenden. 

But he had forgotten all about it when he came home 
at night, and Jerry needed not to have wasted a single 
miserable moment on the oft-repeated query : “ What 
must he have thought ? ” 

She had had a bad day, but it had borne some fruits, 
even such fruits as she could herself appreciate ; for 
granny, reflecting that the child had been less to blame 
than appeared, and that it had been only natural that 
she should jump at a proposal so entirely in accordance 
with her tastes, felt pitiful and compassionate, and set 
about speedily to consider what she should do to “make 
up” to her darling for the past. 

Then the bright idea occurred to her that Jerry should 
sit up to the late supper, should be exhorted to be very 
quiet and sedate, and told that she would thus prove to 
Captain Bellenden, in the most satisfactory manner, that 
she was emerging from the chrysalis state, and was, in 
fact, upon the very confines of butterflyhood. 

Jerry wiped her eyes, which had begun to brim afresh 
at the first words, when it came to this point. 

To sit up to the late supper would certainly be a great 


72 


A MERE CHILD. 


thing, next best if not quite as good as going out on the 
moor, and though, to be sure, the latter might have en- 
tailed the former, there was no absolute certainty that it 
would have done so. Had she been allowed to go with 
her cousin and his friend, it was quite possible that granny 
might have sent for her about midday, in which case she 
would assuredly have lost all chance of the evening treat, 
since she could hardly have faced her grandmother with 
two unwonted requests in one day. The point would 
then have been, which to choose between ? 

But here was granny herself proposing the supper, and 
proposing it in the kindest manner, placing, as it were, 
the gentlest of fingers on a tender spot. 

Granny was sure, she said, that Captain Bellenden had 
meant no harm ; he had only been thoughtless ; he had 
no little sisters of his own, and did not know about them. 
Granny was sorry she had spoken so strongly, and hoped 
no more would be thought about it. It had been quite 
right of Jerry not to go down again. And now she 
should not say anything to their guest (immense relief 
on Jerry’s part), and nothing more need be heard of the 
matter. 

A small hand stole into hers at this point. The old 
lady fondled it, and understood its meaning. 

A sense of subdued comfort and gladness stole into 
the child’s breast, and filled it to overflowing, presently. 
The agony of shame, vexation, and disappointment had 
left it sore and aching, even when the first throes had 
passed ; but now, as evening approached, hope again 
lifted up its head. 

She was to sit up late, and have her place laid at table. 
She was to put on her longest frock, and be in the 
drawing-room by granny’s side when the gentlemen came 
in, and she need not give any explanation of her not re- 
turning to the breakfast-table, as it would be quite suffi- 


A MERE CHILD . 73 

cient to reply to any inquiry that granny had not wished 
her to go out. 

To all of this Jerry meekly assented ; and presently 
granny had the satisfaction of hearing her cheerful 
little tongue prattling away again as if nothing had hap- 
pened. 

“ A piece of white heather from the ptarmigan peaks,” 
cried Bellenden, gaily, coming in in the dusk with it in 
his hand. “ From the very topmost height of your 
lands, fair lady,” holding out the sprig toward Geraldine. 
“ I knew that I should find some, though Raymond said 
not. Will you thdn accept as a gift what you could 
claim as a right ? ” 

She took it shyly. 

“ We have had such a day, Mrs. Campbell,” continued 
the speaker, with animation, “ such a glorious, unrivalled 
day. A day ever to be remembered. It has made up 
for a hundred bad weeks such as the last. We have slain 
our thousands, and we have walked our leagues, and we 
have seen such sights, such stretches of moor upon moor, 
and mountain upon mountain, and so many sea-lochs, 
each like a separate ocean, with its own little fleet of her- 
ring boats, and its own village of fishermen’s cottages — 
oh ! we have had a grand day altogether. I shall never 
forget it. I can never hope for such another.” 

Then he glanced at his other auditor, who was mutely 
listening, but not looking at him. All at once he recol- 
lected and understood. 

“ I am afraid there is no doubt that I was in the wrong 
about your coming, Jerry,” he owned, frankly. “ You 
see I had no idea of what it was going to be like. The 
ground we went over was much too rough for any pony, 
and was pretty severe even on Raymond and me. I 
hope you did not think me very crazy to have proposed 
it, Mrs. Campbell,” turning to the old lady, “ but you 


74 


A MERE CHILD. 


see moors differ so, and that at Kincraig was easy walk- 
ing. Just where we had our luncheon, however, there 
was a path, and I believe the boy and pony came up by 
it. We are to lunch at the same place to-morrow. Now, 
could we not induce you to come up? That would 
atone to my little friend here for my unfortunate sugges- 
tion of the morning. What do you think?” 

“ I will think about it, Captain Bellenden.” 

“ You do ride, I know,” continued he. “ I saw your 
excellent pony in the stables yesterday. Oh, he Would 
carry you up that path.” 

“ Granny has often been up it,” interposed a small 
voice, unable to hold back any longer. “ Granny and I 
have had our luncheon often at the very place, haven’t 
we, dear ? And she does not mind any mountain path, 
I can tell you, Captain Bellenden.” 

“ It certainly sounds very pleasant,” subjoined granny 
for herself, “ and if to-morrow should be as fine as to- 
day ” 

“ Of course fine weather is a necessity for such an ex- 
pedition,” assented its proposer, readily ; “ but we are go- 
ing to have a long spell of fine weather now, every one is 
agreed, and so we may hope for the best,” and he went 
gaily off to make ready for the evening. 

When he came back, only Jerry was in the drawing- 
room ; Mrs. Campbell had been called away, and Cecil 
had not yet come down. 

He looked round, then walked straight up to the little 
girl’s side. 

“ Was it very bad this morning ? ” he whispered. “ Did 
I let you in for a scolding, Jerry ? ” 

Her bosom heaved. 

“ Poor little thing ! ” said he, penitently. “ I am so 
sorry. It was all my fault. They were quite right, you 
know, your grandmamma and cousin. It would really 


A MERE CHILD. 75 

never have done, and I ought never to have set you on 
to ask them. I am awful sorry ” 

“ Oh, it — it doesn’t matter.” 

“ No one is angry with you I hope ?” 

“ Oh, no — not now.” 

“ I am so sorry, so awfully sorry. You do forgive me, 
don’t you, though ?” continued Bellenden, who really had 
no idea how softly and tenderly he was speaking. He 
was, as he said, so very sorry ; and he had a strong sus- 
picion that his sorrow was not undeserved. He could 
perceive traces of a struggle and of emotions not yet en- 
tirely within check upon the childish countenance cast 
down before him, and felt sure that more had happened 
than she would own. Involuntarily his hand took hers 
and held it. 

“You do forgive me, don’t you ?” he said again. 

She had barely time to whisper “ Y es,” ere voices were 
heard, and steps approached, and the hand was caught 
away. 


CHAPTER VII. 

GOLDEN DAYS. 

<( So glides the meteor through the sky. 

And spreads along a gilded train ; 

But when its short-lived glories die, 

Resolves to common air again.” 

So it went on. 

Bellenden was not blameless, but he was less to blame 
than perhaps appears. 

He was really fond of children, whether boys or girls ; 
and had he possessed either sisters, or nieces, or daugh- 
ters of his own, would have shone as an affectionate re- 


;6 


A MERE CHILD. 


lation. There was a simplicity in his disposition and 
tastes which made him the most delightful of compan- 
ions to the very young ; they never bored him ; in their 
sports and pastimes he was as deeply, truly, and seriously 
interested as themselves ; he could go a-nesting or a-nut- 
ting with the enthusiasm of a lad ; he would spend whole 
mornings in constructing a bridge, or damming a stream, 
or making a minnow-bed ; he would be quite pettish if 
called away to attend to weightier matters. 

Now Cecil Raymond cared for none of these things. 
Geraldine had long ceased to bring out for his inspection 
her drawers full of birds’ eggs, her shells, and her sea- 
weeds. She had heard his “ Very pretty” so often, had 
instructed his ignorance so often, and had seen him yawn 
behind his hand such times innumerable when she had 
endeavored to interest him in her simple spoils and treas- 
ures, that she had lost all heart for showing them. 

Indeed she had almost given up bringing them out for 
anybody till Bellenden came. 

She had found that so many of her grandmother’s visi- 
tors would look to please her , would admire when told 
to admire, and listen in order to seem complaisant, that 
she had learned to suppose no grown-up people really 
loved such pursuits for their own sakes, and that it was 
only because she was still young that she clung to them. 

But Bellenden had dispersed that idea. 

He had not only explored every corner of her cherished 
collections, and handled deliberately each separate acqui- 
sition, but he had displayed an amount of knowledge and 
interest that was at once novel and entrancing. More, 
he had informed her that he, too, was a collector. Not 
that he “ had been ” — she had known “ had beens ” be- 
fore — several elderly gentlemen had been laboriously 
anxious to assure her of their having at some remote 
period of schoolboyhood themselves collected and ar- 


A MERE CHILD. 


77 


ranged, but her new friend was her contemporary on this 
ground. He had, he said, his collection at home, and 
whenever he went home he looked it over, and when he 
had a chance he added to it. His collection was of eggs ; 
and if he were at home at the nesting season he invari- 
ably got some new eggs. He did not approve of ex- 
changing eggs with other people. He liked to have 
them all of his own finding. It was stupid to have 
other people’s findings. Jerry had got some that he had 
not, but it was far better for each to keep their own. It 
made a variety. He was quite sober and serious over it, 
and promised his young friend that if she ever came to 
his home she should see his cabinet, when she could have 
one made on the same principles, if she approved of the 
design. With regard to the shells and seaweeds he was 
not so learned, for he had never lived upon the sea. But 
he picked up a smattering of knowledge fast, and then it 
was quite a treat to behold the pains he took to assist the 
little conchologist in her travels round about the shore. 

There happened to be very low tides all the time he 
was at Inchmarew, and at such times, he was informed 
by Jerry, much could be done in the way of augmenting 
the shell collection. To the little girl’s great joy, the 
fine shooting weather had proved to be of brief duration ; 
and, during the unsettled off-and-on wet days that suc- 
ceeded, Bellenden found no better occupation for him- 
self than poking about among the long reaches of sea- 
weed and briny pools in the bay, in search of any thing 
that might turn up. 

The shore at that point was fruitful ; and gorgeous 
sea-anemones, as well as many humbler beauties, besides 
shells and weeds innumerable, rewarded their pains; 
and day by day the two friends — the tall gray figure 
and the small white one, for Jerry’s white frocks went 
on every morning now, and it was quite a business for 


;8 


A MERE CHILD. 


the laundry- maids to get them up quickly enough — - 
would sally forth in the early hours ere the tide had 
begun to return, and have a long, delightful hour or two 
investigating and discovering. Later on there might be 
the moor or the burn. The afternoon would probably 
be claimed for one or other by Cecil ; but he was noth- 
ing loth to have his guest amused and taken off his 
hands, in the interval between breakfast and luncheon. 

He had not, as after a time he found out, much in 
common with Bellenden, who was at once too old and 
too young for him. Bellenden was either a complete 
man of the world or a boy — Cecil was a youth ; and it 
was doubtful whether he ever would become the one or 
could have been the other. 

At present he was all Oxford and Oxonians ; and he 
had hitherto felt that his prattle concerning these was 
scarcely sufficiently strong meat for the swell life-guards- 
man, who was “ up ” in every thing of the day. Then, 
to his astonishment, it had appeared that the veriest 
milk for babes was quite palatable to this very fine gentle- 
man, for whom he had been straining all his faculties to 
provide fare, and he had experienced a curious sense of 
mortification and reaction. 

What was he to suppose ? Why, that Bellenden was, 
after all, but a shallow fellow, who did very well on the 
surface, but of whom a reading, thinking Oxonian very 
speedily got to the end. 

The longer that Bellenden stayed at Inchmarew the 
better indeed was Cecil pleased. Not a note went out 
to friend, tutor, or relation but what it contained some 
mention of the personage then on a visit to his grand- 
mother, and the reports of the Inchmarew bags during 
that week were sent to more papers, far and wide, than 
they had ever been before. But, proud as he was of the 
honor thus conferred upon one and all, young Raymond 


A MERE CHILD. 79 

could not but rejoice that the burden of it should sit 
easily on his individual shoulders. 

He had really none of the trouble of entertaining the 
guest. Jerry, as we have said, had the most of him, 
while Mrs. Campbell found the young man delightful 
company during the meals when all were together; and 
she had herself never been seen to greater advantage than 
when, all animation, she revived the scenes, friendships, 
and stories of her youth for his benefit. As the two 
talked, Jerry would stand by drinking it all in, and 
wondering why she had never cared to listen to anything 
of the kind before, and whether it would not be rather 
nice after all to know something of the great world, 
about which both her grandmother and Bellenden waxed 
eloquent. 

One day the latter surprised her. 

“ Don’t you ever do any lessons, Jerry ?” inquired he, 
somewhat suddenly. 

“ Oh, yes, I do. But these are the holidays, you 
know. I have been having holidays ever since you 
came.” 

“ So I supposed. But what do you do when you are 
not having holidays ? I never hear you speak of lessons. 
Have you not a governess ? ” 

“ N — no.” For a moment Jerry wished she could 
have said “ Yes,” felt as if it ought to have been “Yes.” 
and that she ought to have been able to produce the 
inflexible, spectacled preceptress, who had ever been the 
bane of her imagination ; but presently she plucked up 
spirit to vindicate her position. “ I go every day for 
two hours to the manse,” she said, “ or else Mr. Mac- 
kenzie comes here for two hours. He comes here three 
times a week, and I go three times a week. Granny 
says I could not have a better master, and that it is ex- 
tremely kind of him to spare the time. I have often 


A MERE CHILD. 


So 

heard granny say how fortunate I am,” she added ; but a 
glance at her auditor’s face impelled her to throw in, as 
it were, carelessly, “ I shall have a governess some day,” 
at the close. 

“ Oh, you will ? ” said he. 

“ Oh, yes, I suppose so. Most girls do, you know,” 
said Jerry, instructing him. “ My aunts worry poor 
granny to death about it whenever they see her. Aunt 
Charlotte — that is Lady Raymond — especially. She 
thinks her girls are perfection, and they are with their 
governess all day long ; and she does go on at poor 
granny about me,” affirmed the little girl, shaking her 
head and knitting her dark brows to emphasize the 
statement. 

“ Are they, your cousins, much before you in every- 
thing ?” 

“ In French and German,” conceded Jerry, with con- 
tempt. “ They jabber French to their maid, and Ger- 
man to their governess, and that is about all they know 
of anything. One girl I met at their house,” she con- 
tinued, “ could speak four languages. They told me so. 
What do you think I said ? I said: ‘I don’t believe she 
ever says a word worth hearing in any one of them.’ 
And I don’t. She was the very stupidest thing in the 
world, that girl.” 

“ How had she learned the four languages?” 

“ By going about. Her parents had been obliged to 
live in different countries, and so they had to speak dif- 
ferent languages ; and her mother was a Russian, or 
something of that kind.” 

Bellenden laughed. “ Something of that kind,” he 
repeated to himself. It must be owned he found Jerry 
good company. 

“ Even my cousins’ governess said it was no credit to 
her” proceeded she; “of course, if you have to do a 


A MERE CHILD. 


Si 


thing, you can do it. Now wouldn’t you rather be a 
nice girl in one language than a stupid in half a dozen ?” 

“ Very much rather.” 

“ But I suppose you do care about them a little ? ” 
said she next. She was not altogether satisfied herself 
on the subject. 

“ I think it is a pity not to know something of — 
French, for instance,” he confessed. “ Because when you 
go abroad ” 

“ I never mean to go abroad.” 

“ Never mean to go abroad ? Never mean to see any 
of the great sights of the world ? Never to travel ? ” 

“ Oh, to travel, of course. But that’s not going 
abroad.” 

At length, however, Bellenden won his point. It was 
granny who had set him on, as may have been divined ; 
and his preparatory ignorance of Geraldine’s scholastic 
arrangements had been merely assumed. He had under- 
taken to bring her round on the governess project, as to 
which Mrs. Campbell had in vain striven with the refrac- 
tory miss. 

A couple of hours with Bellenden, a few arguments, 
and a few expressive looks did what the poor old lady 
could not by her own unaided efforts have effected in a 
lifetime. Yes, she would have a governess, a good Eng- 
lish governess — against a French one the little girl still 
made a stand, and in his heart Bellenden agreed with 
her — but she would allow granny to look out for one, 
an English one, at once, and she would show Ethel and 
Alicia how soon she could catch up with them once she 
were set a-going. 

The thing was done ere the two set foot within doors 
again, and e^en the successful strategist, knowing what 
he did, was astonished at the ease with which he had ac- 
complished it. He had now been some time at the 
6 


32 


A MERE CHILD. 


castle, for the week had lengthened out into a fortnight, 
and having once broken through the plan of his autumn 
campaign, and finding himself less and less disposed to 
resist the hospitable pressure put upon him, there is no 
saying to how much further the extension might have 
proceeded, had not the post — that bearer of evil tidings — 
brought one day a hasty summons to him to return home 
as speedily as might be, his father — a hale and vigorous 
Sir John, who had scarcely ever known an ache or ail 
ailment in his life — having all at once given way, and 
been taken seriously ill. 

A telegram was handed in as he was in the act of read- 
ing the letter, to the effect that there was no improve- 
ment, and that the worst was apprehended. 

It was seven o’clock ere either reached Bellenden’s 
hands, he not having returned from the hill before ; had 
he been in the house when the post came in he might 
and would have left for the south that evening, on the 
instant ; but at seven o’clock, although he might have 
started and driven a dozen miles or so across the moor, 
he would have found himself stranded for the night at 
that point, and it would not in any way have assisted to 
expedite his journey that he had left Inchmarew. Bel- 
lenden was a fairly dutiful son, entertaining for his father 
that sort of respectful good-will usual among the better 
sort of young Englishmen, when no closer tie exists be- 
tween parent and offspring than indulgence on the one 
hand and dependence on the other. He was struck, he 
was sorry, he was ready at once to do anything required 
of him, when the ill-tidings arrived ; but since there was 
positively nothing to be done, for that night at least, 
save to telegraph his return on the morrow, he did not 
make himself miserable about remaining. He looked 
out his trains, consulted Cecil about the chances of 
catching the most important, made arrangements for 


A MERE CHILD . 


83 


leaving by the first steamboat which touched at the 
Ferry Pier, and when all was done, went down to 
dinner, rather more grave than was his wont, but by 
no means inclined to inflict his troubles upon anyone 
else. 

“ He will hardly care to go fishing to-night, however,” 
suggested Mrs. Campbell, aside ; for a fishing party on 
the loch had been arranged, and on this account the 
young men had not changed their morning suits, while 
Jerry also was arrayed in a frock suitable for the oc- 
casion, permission for her to accompany them having 
been previously obtained. 

She was now anxiously searching the faces all round. 
She had heard the bad news, and had listened with a 
sharp pang at her little heart, but it had been almost 
immediately afterward swallowed up in a still sharper 
after-pang. Would then the night’s sea-fishing have to 
be abandoned also ? Bellenden must go, but she had 
known he would have to go some day, any day ; and so, 
although the suddenness of his departure was hard to 
bear, still it could be borne, if only — only she might have 
this one evening’s pleasure first. 

It was something to find that both her cousin and his 
guest were in morning costume. That, in itself, meant 
that the plan had not been utterly thrown aside. It 
might not have been taken into consideration, perhaps ; 
but at least the fiat for the condemnation thereof had not 
gone forth. If only granny had not taken it for granted 
that the boat and fishermen would not be needed, and 
countermanded them ! Granny was capable of doing 
this, for her ideas on the score of propriety, though fitful, 
were occasionally strong, and Cecil, too, was a stickler for 
the proprieties. Supposing — and then she caught the 
aside, and waited breathlessly for the result. 

“ He will hardly care to go fishing to-night.” 


84 


A MERE CHILD. 


“ Oh, i don’t know why he should not, grand- 
mamma.” 

“ But if his father should be dying ? ” 

“All the same, he has to be here — among us. And we 
must talk, and we must do something; and, upon my 
word, when a poor fellow is in trouble, I should think he 
would rather be sitting quietly in a boat, not obliged to 
keep going, you know, and that sort of thing, than in a 
room. You would have to talk to him, and be cheerful 
if he stayed at home ; whereas, if we all go out, he can 
be as silent as he pleases. And it is such a glorious fish- 
ing night too.” 

The last argument was unanswerable. 

Even the former ones had their weight; and Mrs. 
Campbell owned that her grandson was in the right, 
when she perceived that their guest made no demur of 
any kind, and even rose from table with decided alacrity 
when an early adjournment was proposed. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

“GOOD-BY, DEAR CHILD — GOOD-BY.” 

“ ’Tis but silk that bindeth thee, 

•Snap the thread, and thou art free ; 

But ’tis otherwise with me.” 

It was a lovely, peaceful summer evening, and the 
last golden gleams of the sinking sun were lighting up, 
mountain and sea when the little party sallied forth from 
the woodlands surrounding the old castle, and found 
themselves upon the shore below. 

The tide was on the turn, and only a short stretch of 
sea-weed, interspersed with rock-bound sea-pools, still 


A MERE CHILD. 


85 


glowing with reflections of the heavens’ expiring glories 
lay between them and the boat, which, with its two 
attendants, showed a dark object against the gorgeous 
background. 

- “ My last night’s fishing on Loch Marew,” said Bellen- 
den, looking round with a sigh, “ my last night in this 

bewitching spot, and ” His eye fell upon the auditor 

at his side, and he said no more. 

Perhaps something in her upturned gaze and parted 
lip warned him to pause. Perhaps he feared to pain. 
He could tell that the little heart was already full. It 
would be hardly fair to seek to excite further emotion. 

But Jerry had heard enough. 

She felt that he cared, knew that he had looked with 
a pensive eye, and heard that he had spoken in a tender 
tone — it needed nothing further. 

She was willing now to hold her peace, rather glad 
than otherwise that nobody seemed disposed for laughter 
and jesting, and was conscious that the silence also suited 
the friend to please whom was at the moment all in all. 

He was more thoughtful than she had ever before be- 
held him. 

And, in truth, Bellenden had a great deal to think 
about. It was not only that at any moment he might 
be losing, or that already he might have lost, a parent; 
it was not only that he could picture to himself a mourn- 
ing household, his mother, brothers, relations, servants, 
all gathered in waiting on a deathbed ; it was not only that 
he had never before been himself summoned to attend 
one; but, as time passed, the young man may perhaps 
be pardoned if other suggestions and considerations in- 
voluntarily rose before him. 

He was the eldest son, and his father’s heir. 

Up to the present hour it had never seemed in the 
least probable that he would succeed to the title and 


86 


A MERE CHILD. 


estates, until Sir John, at a ripe old age, should have 
been gathered to his fathers — and Sir John was barely 
past the prime of life. 

He had married early, and was now in his fifty-fifth 
year, to all intents and purposes little older than his 
thirty-year-old son, and neither one nor other had con- 
templated a change of dynasty for many along day. All 
his life the father had been a healthy, hearty, and vigor- 
ous man. The son had looked upon him as quite as 
likely to live as himself, more likely, indeed, in some re- 
spects, since Sir John had led for some years past the 
simple, placid, routine-like life of a country gentleman, 
whereas Captain Bellenden moved about the world, and 
fell in with its hours, habits, and customs. 

The two were excellent friends ; dined with each other 
at their several clubs ; voted on the same side at elec- 
tion ; paid one another compliments ; and even in pri- 
vate seldom or never quarrelled. They did not, to be 
sure, often meet — but that was nothing. 

Bellenden was now not only unfeignedly sorry to hear 
of his parent’s state, but exceedingly astonished to find 
himself on the brink of a new standpoint in life. 

True, after a vague and general fashion, he had been 
wont to observe, as young men and eldest sons will, “ I 
shall do this, or that,” in reference to the property which 
might one day be his ; but had he been a younger mem- 
ber of the family he would probably have merely substi- 
tuted for “ shall ” the word “ should,” and have had quite 
as much intention of carrying the vague proposition into 
practical effect. 

But now, and all in a moment as it were, he found 
himself likely to be placed in full possession of the power 
to carry out every idle humor or visionary plan. 

His mother would, he knew, defer to him in every 
thing ; his brothers, with whom he had always been 


A MERE CHILD. 


s; 


equally omnipotent, would have no say ; no one, indeed, 
would have any say, as no one had had any say with the 
one now passing, or passed, from the earth. As Sir John 
had ruled, so would Sir Frederick, rule supreme; and 
who could have been altogether insensible to such a 
prospect ? It said something for Bellenden that he had 
never hitherto given any serious consideration to it. 

During his father’s lifetime he had neither intruded, 
nor interfered ; and it had indeed been a complaint in 
the neighborhood that he had been so little seen there. 

No one would have guessed how delightful all at once 
appeared the old ancestral halls, the country life, rural 
pleasures, peace, power, and plenty in the eyes that 
had been wont to contemplate it all only from a dis- 
tance. 

He had not wished to care, and that was the secret. 

Of a happy disposition, he had wisely been well con- 
tent with his own lot — no hard one, certainly — and might 
have gone on being so ; but, be it remembered, he was 
no longer in his first youth, and, be patient with him, 
kind readers, if the new prospect opened to his now ma- 
tured vision did appear indescribably tempting. 

And then again would steal in more solemn and affect- 
ing thoughts. 

At that sunset hour who could tell what might be pass- 
ing within the old familiar home of his childhood ? 

Were they already beginning to count the hours until 
he should arrive ? Was all over in that darkened room ? 
Should he find only the cold remains of one who had so 
lately glowed with life and health, well, strong, buoyant 
as himself ? 

He could almost see the scene awaiting him now. The 
long lines of veiled windows, the sombre domestics with 
their subdued, important faces, the reverent hush of every 
sound, and every eye turned upon himself in anxious 


88 


A MERE CHILD. 


expectancy. To him all would turn. On him all would 
lean. He must be the head, the front, the centre of 
everything soon. 

No wonder that, wrapt in contemplations of such a 
nature, he hung over the boat’s side in profoundest si- 
lence, the monotonous thud of the oars in the row-locks, 
and the faint lapping of the parted waters against the 
prow falling dreamily upon his ear. 

No one broke in upon his reverie. 

He was alone with Geraldine, as it were ; for Cecil, at 
the other end of the boat, was completely separated from 
them by the two mute figures who plied their oars be- 
tween, and who at no time loquacious, even in their na- 
tive dialect, were on such occasions absolutely silent, 
unless especially addressed. 

“ How beautiful it all is ! ” exclaimed Bellenden, rous- 
ing himself at length with another sigh. “ How beauti- 
ful ! I shall often think of this night.” 

Could he fail to do that ? Whatever befel him, what- 
ever the future might have in store for him, would not 
that calm, still August evening on the Highland loch, 
with its strange attendant circumstances, its novel 
thoughts and emotions, stand out in his memory to all 
time ? 

It seemed as if he had been months — almost years — 
where he now was. The place and its surroundings had 
grown so familiar to him, he had so fallen in with every 
thing, cast anchor, as it were, so firmly in the soil, that 
he could scarcely believe, it seemed well-nigh incredible, 
that, until within the past few short weeks, he had never 
even beheld it. 

And then this dear little girl. How nice and affection- 
ate she had been to him ! How completely he had won 
her good-fellowship ! 

She would miss him, he was sure. 


A MERE CHILD. 


89 

He must send her something, some remembrance, some 
really handsome, acceptable present, suitable both for 
her to receive and for him to give, as soon as he could 
get up to town and see about it. Of course he should 
have to go up to town before long. Indeed, immediately, 
most likely. There would be so much to be seen to, 
and done — and then his thoughts wandered off again far 
away from poor little Jerry, sitting wistfully sorrowful 
and sympathetic by his side, far, far away into all the 
intricacies and possibilities of his own future untinged 
by hers. 

At last they reached the whiting bank, and a little 
more animation stirred the party. 

The oars were drawn in, and laid lengthwise at the 
bottom of the boat. The hand-lines were taken up, and 
unrolled. Bait was produced. 

The night was as good a one as need have been, and 
though better luck had occasionally been known, there 
was, on the present occasion, no call for complaint. 
Jerry, in particular, was fortunate, and the little girl’s 
spirits would have risen tfnder the inspiring influence, 
if it had produced a like effect upon her companion. 
But although Bellenden assisted both in taking the fish 
off the hooks and in baiting them again, and although 
he was always ready with his congratulatory, “ Another, 
Jerry? You are lucky to-night,” she felt that the spirit 
was absent, and that the passing scene had only a faint, 
inadequate hold on his attention. His very smile was 
grave. 

But after a while, and that at a movement of her own, 
he looked round quickly. She had shivered as the air 
grew colder, and a slight breeze had sprung up. 

“ You are cold,” said Bellenden, at once laying down 
his hand-line, “ let me put this over your shoulder,” and 
he drew a rough, warm, weather-beaten plaid around her. 


90 


A MERE CHILD . 


“ Don’t you go and catch cold to-night, and then be ill 
after I am gone, little one.” 

“ It won’t matter if I do.” 

The words escaped under her breath, but they reached 
his ear nevertheless, and he could not but make some 
response. 

“ You think your chances of getting out on the moor 
and the loch will depart with me ? Is that it ? Is Cecil 
no good ? ” 

“ I shall not care to go with Cecil.” 

“ You cared to go by yourself before I came.” 

She was silent. It seemed to her that she would not 
care even to go by herself any more. 

But Bellenden’s tone grew more and more soft and 
gentle. It moved him infinitely, in his present subdued 
and pensive frame, to think how much of her affections 
this open-hearted, innocent-minded child had given him 
in one short fortnight. It gratified his vanity, and some- 
thing better than his vanity — his benevolence. He was 
glad to think he had made anyone the happier, particu- 
larly anyone so sweet, and natural, and lovable as Geral- 
dine. He put his arm around her and drew her to his 
side. 

“ You must not forget me, Jerry,” he said. 

“No.” She had stopped fishing to listen. 

“ I may come and see you again some day, may I 
not ? ” 

“ Oh, yes.” 

“ And you are going to be a good girl, and learn a 
great deal, and have a great deal to tell me when I do 
come ? And you will go on with our collections, and 
read up about them, and have them all in nice order ? ” 

“ Oh, yes.” 

“ I shall tell your cousins about you if I come across 
them.” 


A MERE CHILD . 


91 


“ Shall you come across them ? ” 

“Very likely I may. If I meet Lord and Lady Ray- 
mond, I shall ask to see Ethel and Alicia, and tell them 
all about their little cousin in the north.” 

“ Do you think they would care about me?” 

“ I shall make them care about you.” 

“You won’t say that I am very — very ” 

“Very what?” 

“ You know what. You know how you found me 
that first fishing day. But, indeed, I am not often as 
bad as that, and I am never going to be as bad again. I 
have promised granny that I shall not. Aunt Charlotte, 
and Ethel, and Alicia would have thought it dreadful. 
I don’t want them to think me dreadful.” 

“ I promise that they shan’t.” 

“ Well, they won’t if you stand up for me,” and Jerry 
smiled confidingly round. 

“Because I am grown up, I suppose.” 

“Oh, yes; and a man, and all that. They would 
think a great deal of what you say; and if you say that 
I am ” Here she stopped. 

“ Go on. That you are ” 

“No; I am silly.” 

“ Not silly at all. I want to hear. Go on, there’s a 
good child. You are quite safe with me,” and his arm 
pressed her a little closer. 

“ I was only going to say that if you would say I was 
rather nice — that is, if you could say it,” said poor Jerry, 
humbly, “they would tell Aunt Charlotte, and she 
would perhaps believe it, and that would please granny. 
You see, Aunt Charlotte does not like me very much 
now, and that vexes dear granny, who loves me so dread- 
fully, and I thought — I thought it might just — no one 
else could do any good,” she concluded. There was 
something so truthful and confiding in the limpid child- 


9 2 


A MERE CHILD. 


ish eyes, and so artless in the childish confession, that 
Bellenden could not smile at it. 

“ I will certainly do what I can,’’ he said, “ and — and 
you were quite right to tell me all about it, Jerry dear. 
Now, you see, I know what I am about. And if a 
chance offers, why, of course, I shall embrace it at once.” 
And to himself he added, “Is there anydiope that she 
will always remain like this ? Will she, can she be ex- 
pected to be, always as true and honest ? Or will she 
be like all the rest in a few short years ?” and even the 
man of the world sighed. For he little knew, he little 
dreamed, that even then he had not seen to the depths 
of the heart he called a child’s. 

Just before the boat touched the shore he stooped 
over Jerry for a moment. 

“ Farewell to Loch Marew,” he said. “ Farewell to all 
the kind hearts here. Farewell, Geraldine. Good-by, 
dear child — say ‘good-by’ here, for I shall be up and 
away long before you are awake in the morning. I am 
to breakfast in my own room, so you must not get up 
as on the shooting days. So — say ‘good-by,’ then, 
while we may,” and on her cold, rosy cheek she suddenly 
felt his warm breath, and then the pressure of his lips 
in a kiss. 

Her heart seemed to stand still — the pulses in her 
throat to choke her. 

Cecil, rising at the other end of the boat, seemed like 
a shadow in a dream, his voice calling to her an echo 
from some far away distant spot. 

Mechanically she arose to obey the summons, touched 
the different hands held out to guide her, sprang ashore 
and stumbled along over the dark, wet weeds, blind and 
deaf to all outer sights and sounds. 

The other two were behind, having stayed to help up 
the boat ; but she waited for no one. And she never 


A MERE CHILD. 


93 


spoke to Bellenden again, nor turned her head to look 
for him, but hurried forward along through the dim 
mazes of the woodland path, and in through the great 
porch, and up the broad stairs, straight to her own 
chamber, to be seen of no one any more at all that 
night. 

For she was not required to come down again. There 
was to be no supper, only what the gentlemen chose to 
send for, while a tray was despatched to herself ; and so 
the farewell on the water was really what it was given 
out to be, the parting between the two for many and 
many a day. 

It had not been exactly so intended by Bellenden. 

The kiss had been given on the impulse of the moment, 
and there had been no intention of producing such an 
effect as he could perceive had been wrought thereby. 

“Is she angry, I wonder?” he had thought, half 
amazed and half chagrined ; but, after all, such a thing 
was hardly likely. It had really been nothing to make 
anyone angry ; it had been nothing to think twice about. 

A dear little girl. A sudden parting. A tender good- 
by. Everything provocative and excusable. Jerry could 
not have thought any harm. After all, what is a kiss at 
fifteen ? 

Within twenty-four hours that kiss was, in the giver’s 
memory, as though it had never been. 

During his rapid journey south, and while he had 
perforce many long hours for meditation as the swift- 
ness of express trains bore him on from one far distant 
stopping place to another, Bellenden did, indeed — hav- 
ing no companion to talk to and nothing to divert his 
attention — bestow a considerable share of his ruminations 
upon his sojourn in the old Highland castle. It was a 
relief to turn to it as a memory when almost spent with 
conjectures and cogitations in the only other direction 


94 


A MERE CHILD. 


which at such a time could command his attention ; and 
the repose of its monotonous life, and the charm of its 
intercourse, at once simple and refined, soothed and 
hushed his spirit when disposed to be chafed and im- 
patient by uncertainty and anxiety as to what now 
awaited him. 

But once arrived within the landmarks of his home, 
once assured that he was, as he had divined he would be, 
too late, the necessity for action, the cessation of mere 
passive endurance, the release from suspense, even the 
presence and voices of others, put an end at once and 
altogether to visions of the past. The future must now 
be every thing. 

The new experience began at once, new and yet fore- 
seen and anticipated. There was the hush, the solem- 
nity, the mournfulness, the whispers, the death-like pause 
of expectancy. The old butler bowing his white head, 
the underlings subsiding with profoundest respect into 
the background, the shadows of the women flitting past 
in the dim distance — all wanting to look upon him un- 
seen themselves ; all desirous of seeing how he would 
bear himself, how comport himself — yet not daring to 
intrude. And then he had to meet his mother, his 
brothers, his uncles; to interview the steward and the 
coachman ; to give his sanction to projected arrange- 
ments ; to hear what had already been done ; to write 
letters. 

It was now twelve hours since the spirit had departed, 
and twelve hours at such a time seems long. 

Lady Bellenden had so far recovered from the first 
shock and impression, that she had seen her children 
and consulted with her maid. 

The young men had had a furtive stroll round the 
premises, and peeped by stealth into the paddocks and 
the kennels. The stablemen and boys had known to 


A MERE CHILD. 


95 


keep out of the way, and affect not to see, as the poor 
young fellows wandered aimlessly about, feeling they 
knew not exactly what, wondering what they should do 
next, and how much would be considered lawful under 
the circumstances. One and all wearied for the arrival 
of the elder brother. To learn from him what would 
follow this sudden overturn of all the past, what the new 
regime was likely to prove, and how it would affect each 
one of them, was now their very natural desire. Fred- 
erick had always been a good fellow, and they hoped the 
best — hoped he would not change with his altered cir- 
cumstances, and appear, as others have been known to do, 
a different man under different auspices. But who was 
to say ? 

Thus Frederick’s arrival had been the thing most ear- 
nestly desired and anticipated both above and below 
stairs. 

It was late ere it took place, but no one wished to re- 
tire to rest first. 

For himself, he was too much confused and excited to 
feel fatigue. He had been travelling since five o’clock 
that morning, and he had not slept till long after mid- 
night the night before ; but he had not closed an eye all 
day. Even presently, even after all calls and claims on 
his attention had ceased on the part of the household, 
and one by one the domestics had departed for the night, 
and the doors had been locked, and silence within and 
without had settled down still more deeply than before 
upon the house of mourning, even then the traveller 
seemed unwilling to be again alone. 

The brothers sat up with him. They talked together 
in quiet, subdued tones of the old days, the old boyish 
exploits, the quaint experiences, joyous or grievous, of 
the past. Childish nicknames were recalled ; childish 
jests slipped out ; little trifling tales arose once again to 


9 6 


A MERE CHILD. 


the lip, that but for such an hour had been buried ut- 
terly. 

The old home seemed dearer to one and all than it had 
been supposed to be. 

Each had gone back to his own little room. Each 
went to it that night happier than on the previous one. 
Their father was indeed gone ; all was over; they were 
very sorry; but — Frederick was all right, and their hearts 
were comforted. 

And Frederick, himself ? He also was now quieted 
down. He knew the ground whereon he stood, and 
might be said to be already almost at home upon it. 
From sheer exhaustion of mind and body, long and 
heavy slumber at length visited his wearied frame, and 
the sun was high in the heavens ere he was aroused from 
his pillow on the following morning. 

But with consciousness awoke every new thought and 
reflection on the instant. A busy day — many busy days 
— lay before him. He must be up and doing — no more 
lassitude, no more uncertainty ; a whole crowd of things 
to be looked after, and instructions to be given, and peo- 
ple to be seen awaited his appearance. All was solemn 
activity and decorous supervision. Inchmarew Castle 
was like the palest spectre on its own misty heath, if 
even the faintest recollection of it flitted across his 
memory. 

And even that recollection was presently effaced. 

New claims, new responsibilities, new hopes and fears, 
a new arena in life altogether had to be entered upon, 
and with surprising rapidity Sir Frederick Bellenden ac- 
commodated himself to the change. 

By and by he gave up his commission in the army, and 
settled down at his country seat. Next came standing 
for his division of the county in Parliament, with the 
excitement of a contested election. Then the loss of the 


A MERE CHILD. 


97 


election, and the consolation of sport, hunting in the 
winter especially. There was yachting at Cowes more- 
over, grouse and partridge and pheasant shooting as au- 
tumn came on again, and even a run to Scotland — and 
still never a thought of Geraldine. 

He had not come across the Raymonds in the interim, 
and somehow he had omitted to look up young Raymond 
when in town, as he had meant to do. And he had never 
sent the little heiress her present — for he had forgotten 
about it till too late. And, altogether, the thought of 
Inchmarew was not quite so pleasant as it had been at 
first, after his conscience told him he had not behaved so 
handsomely as he might have done ; and again he re- 
solved to make up for it, should occasion offer — and again 
no occasion did offer ; and so things went on for three 
full years, and then — but what happened then calls for a 
new stage, and a fresh rising of the curtain. 


7 





























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* 








PART II.— GERALDINE. 


‘‘He’s now resolved, and now afraid : 

To minds disturbed, old views appear 
In melancholy dreams arrayed, 

And once indifferent, now are dear. 
How shall I go, my fate to learn ? 

And O ! how taught, shall I return ? ” 







CHAPTER IX. 


THE BUTTERFLY TAKES HER FIRST FLIGHT. 

“ In London I never knew what I’d be at. 

Enraptured with this, and enchanted with that ; 

I’m wild with the sweets of variety’s plan, 

And life seems a blessing too happy for man.” 

All was bustle and joyful alacrity in a smart little 
house in Mayfair. 

It was a bright, fresh spring morning, and though it 
was yet very early in May the mildness of the season 
had brought on leaf and blossom to such an extent that 
the parks, one and all, showed a blaze of rhododendron 
and azalea glories, and the pink almond, worn-out and 
faded, was shedding itself in showers on every side. 
London was full and busy, and a brilliant season was 
prognosticated. 

Mrs. Campbell had been lucky in finding a little house 
to suit her, and she had now been in town for more than 
a fortnight, during which every day had been fully oc- 
cupied in preparations for the important time now at 
hand. For Geraldine was eighteen, and was to make 
her appearance in the world. 

As a preliminary, she was of course to make her curt- 
sey, and kiss the hand of our most gracious Queen, and 
it is on the eventful morning of her so doing that we 
catch our next glimpse of the wild little witch of Inch- 
marew. 

Any greater contrast than this to our first peep at her 
under the weather-stained yellow oilskin and sailor cap, 


102 


A MERE CHILD . 


cannot well be imagined— and the outer difference does 
but shadow for her the still greater one within. 

Three years had done its work, and done it well for 
Geraldine. 

She was taller, slimmer, gentler, milder than of old — • 
she was lovelier by far — she was no whit less truthful, 
honest, and frank. 

The governess had been a great success ; if a governess 
had been searched for the whole world through to suit 
the place, the pupil, and her surroundings, a better could 
not have been found than the quiet, earnest, sympathetic, 
and large-hearted woman who presently found for her- 
self so warm a corner of the little girl’s heart. Veiy 
quickly she had fathomed the depths and shallows of 
the soil to be worked, and had gauged its value. There 
had been no rude measures, no hasty reforms such as 
would have revolted Jerry’s very soul, but, instead, there 
had been much kindly appreciation, a fair meed of praise 
where praise was due, and, above all, and it was this 
which had finally won the pupil’s entire affections — a 
candid ignorance on many topics as to which Jerry her- 
self was well qualified to instruct. To be asked to teach 
when she had only expected to learn ! All the gene- 
rosity and nobility of the child’s nature had been aroused 
by the supplication, and no cause had Miss Corunna 
ever had to repent it. 

Once begun under such auspices, the pursuit of knowl- 
edge had thriven apace. 

Geraldine had actually exulted during the brief, dull, 
winter days, when there had been little to tempt her 
from her tasks, in the thought that the hours which she 
had been wont to wile away in unproductive trivialities 
or doleful complaints had been now hardly long enough 
for all she had to do. What with one thing and another 
the weeks had seemed to fly, for her eager spirit had set 


A MERE CHILD. 


103 


no bounds to its desires, until even her delighted and 
almost equally enthusiastic preceptress had demurred. 
She had hardly known how to be moderate in the race. 

And all the time, and underlying all, there had been a 
stimulus others little dreamed of, a spur, a secret incen- 
tive, the bare thought of which had been sufficient to in- 
cite anew had energy for a moment flagged or ardor 
abated. 

That spell had been the thought of Bellenden. 

He it was who had persuaded her to enter those new 
regions. It had been to please him that she had agreed 
to tread them, and to display to him her conquests and 
her triumphs was the prize she had coveted. 

She had pictured his questioning her as to this and 
that. In her mind’s eye she had beheld him scanning 
her books, her maps, her records of one sort and another. 
For his ear she had treasured up little histories of diffi- 
culties encountered and victories obtained, and she had 
fancied, poor thing, in her innocent heart, that when the 
happy day of meeting should come at last, she should 
find him as eager to hear as she to tell, and as apprecia- 
tive and attentive as she could be discursive and dra- 
matic. 

He had not been expected before the autumn follow- 
ing his departure. He had written — a hasty line, but 
sufficient under the circumstances — during those first 
over-crowded days of mourning at his old home, and he 
had hinted at writing again, and had hoped to meet again 
some day, and had assured one and all that he could 
never feel grateful enough for all the kindness shown 
him at Inchmarew. 

For some time after the note had been received, 
another had been expected ; but on young Raymond’s 
departure, Mrs. Campbell had felt that she had prob- 
ably for the present heard the last of his pleasant friend 


104 


A MERE CHILD. 


and guest, and that, considering all that had happened, 
it was hardly to be wondered at if it were so. 

“ I shall ask him here for the twelfth next year, if you 
approve,” Cecil had observed ; and, the suggestion hav- 
ing been received cordially, “the twelfth ” had gradually 
come to be considered in his young cousin’s mind as the 
point on which to fix hope and expectancy. 

All through the long warm days of the following June 
and July, it had been a vision standing brightly out to 
view; and daily at last had the blue eyes scanned the 
contents of the post-bag, and marked every envelope 
which might be Cecil’s, and might contain some words, 
something definite, some allusion or reference even to 
that great meeting — but in vain. 

Cecil had come himself, and had neither written nor 
spoken once about Bellenden. 

Perhaps Geraldine’s grandmother had a quicker vision 
than the little maid gave her credit for; it could hardly 
have been sheer forgetfulness which caused her to let the 
whole first evening of her grandson’s arrival pass without 
a question, considering what had once been agreed upon ; 
she almost must have had some reason for waiting tilt 
after Jerry had gone to bed to make her inquiries; but 
she had done all this, and Cecil having been equally re- 
ticent, the little girl had thought Bellenden forgotten by 
every one but herself. 

He had not been so. Young Raymond had been some- 
what sore on the subject, to tell the truth, and had not 
cared to touch upon it. He, as well as his grandmother, 
had seen more than either chose to take notice of ; and 
although at first Geraldine’s open and manifest devotion 
had merely amused the one, and nettled the other, they 
had alike felt that it was well it should quietly pass off, 
more especially as it had not to any appearance been re- 
ciprocated. Bellenden had made a fuss about the little 


A MERE CHILD . 


105 


heiress when there had been nothing else for him to do, 
and then he had gone off, and never given either her or 
her guardian another thought ! No wonder each of the 
two elders had silently understood the other’s suppres- 
sion of his name. 

The next morning, however, Cecil had casually let fall 
a piece of information. 

“ By the way, grandmamma,” he had said, “ you told 
me I might invite Bellenden to shoot here (Jerry’s heart 
thumped up at the words) if he should be our way,” con- 
tinued the speaker, hunting for something in his pocket. 
“ I did drop him a line, and I have his answer somewhere 
about me,” pulling out two or three crumpled envelopes. 
“Ay, here it is,” and then he had read it aloud and had 
afterward unconsciously, as it were, tossed the scrap over 
the table, and Jerry had read it for herself. 

It had indeed been a delusion. 

A few bold sentences — a reference to “ his pleasant re- 
membrance of Inchmarew and his charming visit there — 
his best regards to Mrs. Campbell and his little friend, 
Geraldine.” And that was all. His “ little friend, Ger- 
aldine ! ” 

How her heart had swelled at the words ! She had 
then only been his “ little friend, Geraldine,” while he — 
oh ! the moonlit nights on which she had lain awake, 
sleepless and dreamless, thinking about him ! Oh, the 
days wherein she had watched and waited, hearkening, 
as it were, for the faintest echoes of his approaching foot- 
fall, the furthest away whisper of his coming! 

Scarcely, if ever, had a single sun risen and set with- 
out there having been in the interim some association 
with him in her thoughts, her efforts, or her wishes. 

And he had not even come this once ! And he had 
not even cared to pretend that he had meant to come ! 
For Bellenden had written hastily and had let the sim- 


io6 


A MERE CHILD. 


pie truth appear. Inchmarew had never been in his pro- 
gramme, and he had made other arrangements. There 
had been no temptation to reconsider these, no induce- 
ment sufficiently strong, no prospect sufficiently seduc- 
tive ; and, accordingly, he had let them stand, and had 
not, when writing, taken the pains to put any other face 
upon the matter. 

All had been clearly conveyed, and the very bitterness 
of the conviction that it had been so had kept the child- 
woman from betraying herself. 

No note in her voice, no tear in her eye, nothing but a 
deep flush upon her cheek had been visible to others. 
She had endured her wound in silence, and had felt it 
throb and sting without a moan. 

But for a time all the sunlight had died out of her day- 
dreams, and what had before been full of ever-deepening 
interest, those pursuits and occupations which had been 
growing ever more engrossing as the hour had seemed to 
draw near when the harvest was to be reaped, all of these 
had become straightway almost loathsome. 

She had not been ill. She had been too hardy and 
too healthy for that. But she had drooped and flagged, 
and at length fond eyes had seen, and there had been 
change of air and scene, and the young girl had been 
spirited about from place to place until the results of 
such delightful medicine had been all that might have 
been expected. 

Miss Corunna had been a princess of travelling com- 
panions, and the kindest and most judicious of nurses. 
Jerry had not only been shown this and that, and allowed 
to follow the bent of her own ardent spirit in seeing the 
things she really cared for, and doing what she really 
wished, but another sort of machinery had also been set 
agoing. She had tasted something of the pleasures of be- 
ing rich, had been set on to buy numbers of nice new 


A MERE CHILD. 


107 


things, new adornments for her own modest little cham- 
ber, a new carpet and writing-table for the school-room, 
books, drawing materials, music. Miss Corunna had 
superintended the purchase of a vast piece of gorgeous 
silk embroidery, wherewith to beguile the winter even- 
ings ; and altogether there had been a complete restora- 
tion to cheerfulness ; and if the studies had not been re- 
sumed presently with quite so much vivacity as at the 
very first, it had been perhaps still more satisfactory to 
the preceptress to feel that now it had not been the 
mere novelty of the thing which had actuated the youth- 
ful disciple, but that there had sprung up a steady reso- 
lution to progress, not unmixed with a genuine taste for 
some branches of knowledge. 

But Bellenden had never been quite forgotten — nor 
forgiven. 

True, he had been from that time regarded in a differ- 
ent light, namely, as one who had slighted and deceived. 

It had been no longer to please him that Geraldine 
had strained her utmost in mental toil. That had gone 
by. But his image had still fitfully haunted her, and 
she had not been able all at onee to rid herself of it. 

He had, she had told herself, deliberately promised 
that which he had never intended to perform. 

In this, we may observe, Bellenden had been done in- 
justice to; but Jerry could hardly be expected to under- 
stand as much. With all her brightness and gayety she 
was, as may be seen, of a very tenacious, downright, and 
steadfast nature, and with her, as with others of her 
kind, to say, however lightly, “ I will ” do this or that, 
implied a promise, and a promise to be sacredly kept. 
This is, perhaps, a little hard upon the facile. 

Bellenden, when he had said “ I will come again to 
Inchmarew,” had certainly dreamed of nothing less than 
of imposing upon himself a solemn vow to do so. He 


io8 


A MERE CHILD. 


had equally certainly meant to come, all winds being 
favorable ; but to have known that the words as spoken 
were sinking deep down into the breast of the listener at 
his side, to be registered there to the end of time, would, 
indeed, have taken his breath away. 

He had now, in the eyes of his worshipper, disgraced 
himself and her who had believed in him. 

He had broken his pledge, and broken it in the easy 
fashion of one to whom a pledge is nothing. Her idol 
had fallen with a crash into a thousand pieces. 

She would think of him no more. She would never 
breathe his name to human ear. The little casket of 
treasures, each of which spoke of him and conjured his 
presence up ? She would fling them to the winds. 
Even the most precious of all, the sketch of Inchmarew 
from the Kincraig heights — the pretty, dainty marvel of 
skill and beauty, set such infinite store by hitherto — it 
should go with the rest ; and with ruthless, passionate 
fingers it had first been torn in many pieces. 

And thus had ended the day-dream, with an awaken- 
ing sharp and bitter enough. 

But even that period had now gone by, and the peace- 
ful routine of her improved and altered life, with all its 
new occupations and aspirations, had completed the 
cure which her own dawning womanly pride and resolu- 
tion had begun. 

The next summer she had only occasionally wondered 
at times whether anything would be heard of the re- 
creant, or not ? She had scarcely known whether or no 
she had even wished him to come. If she had wished it, 
it had been with a new object in view, namely, to make 
it clear that Sir Frederick Bellenden, changed as he 
might have himself proved to be, should find an equal, 
if not a still greater, change in the “little friend” from 
whom he had departed two years before. His “ little 


A MERE CHILD. 


109 


friend!” She had felt she could never forgive him 
that. 

Had he come after those two years, he would have 
been met by a tall and graceful girl, whose stately greet- 
ing would have repelled all tardy advances toward re- 
newed intimacy, and ignored all reminiscences. He 
should have been held at arms’ length, treated with 
dignified courtesy, and his presence, except in that of 
others, quietly avoided. 

All thrown away. 

He had never come, and apparently Cecil had never 
asked him. By the next spring, he had ceased to be 
thought about at all. 

For Geraldine was now, as we have said, on the brink 
of entering the great world, and although it would be 
doing her trusty guardian and grandmother injustice to 
let it be supposed that she contemplated launching a 
lovely girl upon a vortex of fashion and folly, or even 
upon an absorbingly giddy round of society pleasures, it 
must be borne in mind that the old lady had her own 
views about the matter, and was quite equal to carrying 
these out. She had no intention that her mountain 
heiress should go without the experience she deemed 
suitable and necessary, as well as the pleasures and pas- 
times enjoyable at her age. Happily, Geraldine was not 
by nature one whom the glitter and fume of fashionable 
life was likely to impress. Not only was she of too 
sincere and simple a disposition, but joined to granny’s 
earlier example, she had had of later years the inesti- 
mable advantage of beholding, in the person of her be- 
loved instructress, humble, inobtrusive piety acting upon 
the daily life, a lesson all involuntarily learned, and 
now her chiefest safeguard. Miss Corunna was now, as 
was not surprising, friend, counsellor, and indispensable 
companion — and accordingly, on the May-day with 


I IO 


A MERE CHILD. 


which this chapter opens, who so busy as Miss Corunna, 
about the all-important affair, and the decking of the 
fair debutante ? 

Everyone, high and low, indeed, wanted to have a 
finger in the pie. 

The nurse, who had cherished her nestling through 
every change of childhood and girlhood — granny’s maid, 
who, intent on instructing and remembering, yet blun- 
dered sadly among new fashions and new follies — the 
old butler, who ran off like a boy to the nurseryman’s, in 
terror lest the bouquets (the scarlet and cream one for 
the old lady, and the pure white for Geraldine) should 
not arrive before the hour appointed — the footman, who 
flung open the hall-door for monsieur the hairdresser to 
enter, ere that very fine personage could descend from 
his hansom, bag in hand — down to every housemaid and 
scullery-maid in the establishment, who, abandoning 
their work for the nonce, giggled over the top of the 
stairs as eleven o’clock approached. 

And then at the very last moment, or what should 
have been the last moment, came the terrible discovery 
that Geraldine had no fan. 

The 'fan of white plumes which should have matched 
those in her hair had been forgotten, and if Miss Corun- 
na, all as she was, did not catch up a hat and spin around 
the corner like a whirlwind, returning with the same in 
less than no time, triumphant ! 

Then came such a displaying and spreading of trains 
and showing of accoutrements to the delighted household, 
who could never look, nor wonder, nor admire enough ! 

Granny said that they really should be late, and was 
almost inclined to be put out, when it was proved that 
she was so completely wrong that they were among the 
very earliest on the line of carriages. Granny was sure 
that in her day people had been wont to set off earlier, 


A MERE CHILD. 


1 1 1 

and hoped that there was no falling-off in the attendance 
on Her Majesty’s drawing-rooms; she would have been 
sorry, very sorry to have witnessed any diminution of 
their ancient splendor, and so on. 

The dear old lady was soon consoled. 

That there was no falling-off, and no curtailment, was 
obvious within a very short period, and she could then 
sit proudly up, and gaze upon the fair young face oppo- 
site with little thrills of fond emotion and anticipation, 
such as from time to time brought the quiet tear into 
either eye. 

Granny was looking beautiful herself. 

Her train of black satin, lined with some old, old bro- 
cade, rich and rustling, such as the little Court dress- 
maker had seldom seen or handled before, and which 
made her little eyes twinkle now, was such as suited her 
stately, queen-like presence ; and although our gracious 
Queen does forbid high necks and long sleeves on these 
occasions, granny had contrived so to be-frill and be- 
ruffle herself that the poor dear old wrinkles were quite 
invisible beneath the soft folds, and were, indeed, as 
completely out of sight as though they had never been. 

All her ancient diamorids — and some of Geraldine’s 
too, for Jerry would wear none of them. — looked brave 
in granny’s silvery hair. 

Jerry had contented herself with a single row of milky* 
pearls round her white throat, than, indeed, nothing 
could have looked more soft and tender, so that even 
granny had not the heart nor conscience to press the 
diamonds back upon her, even while she had hardly felt 
it fair to shine herself in borrowed splendor. 

But to be sure Geraldine shone unaided. She looked 
such a fresh, bright, radiant young thing in her simple 
white, with no adornments save the string of pearls, that, 
in the partial eyes so proudly bent upon her, it seemed 


1 12 


A MERE CHILD. 


there would not, could not be a fairer rosebud blown 
that day. 

Granny did not see many old friends ; indeed, she 
only recognized here and there a face among the walkers 
and riders who now began to lounge along on either side 
the line, peeping in at the carriage windows, and making 
a halt now and again when hailed by their occupants. 

Cecil Raymond had promised to look up his grand- 
mother and cousin, and cheer and chat with them during 
this weary waiting time — but they saw nothing of him, 
though Geraldine kept a look-out with an eagerness at 
which she was herself surprised. 

She had seen Cecil only the evening before, and he 
was coming to Mount Street after their return from the 
palace, so why should she care about meeting him again 
in the interval ? 

She did not know that she was experiencing, even in 
the midst of her splendor, a touch of that forlornness 
which only those can understand who, having been 
brought up in a confined and limited sphere, where 
every object has been from childhood familiar, are sud- 
denly transported into a vast, seething, restless mass of 
human beings. 

The past fortnight had almost made Geraldine imagine 
that she had outlived the feeling. The first shock had 
•been got over; she had been up and down Bond Street 
and Regent Street, and had fancied herself at home in 
sundry resorts of fashion ; but this pageant, so com- 
pletely and entirely unlike anything she had ever before 
been a witness of, threw her back again. 

Such endless numbers of fine folks, fine equipages, fine 
everything! Such wonderfully beautiful young faces; 
’such proud old patrician ones; such lovely children! 

Somehow or other, as she gazed, another face and 
figure, one she had known once, came back upon her so 


A MERE CHILD. 


1 13 

vividly that she almost started now and again, so sure 
was she that the head or the profile of which she had 
caught a glimpse among the crowd must have been that 
of Bellenden. This happened more than once. It was, 
it could be but most foolish of fancies, and she was an- 
noyed with herself that what must perforce only be the 
cold ashes of an old association should have had the 
power to stir the blood in her little finger; but she could 
not help it. She thought she would have liked to see 
him, and would have liked him to see her — and that was 
all. 

As for Cecil, he was watched for more eagerly than he 
had ever been before, and even granny was annoyed by 
the inattention — since it would have been pleasant to 
have had their man to talk to as other people had. The 
carriage in front and the carriage behind had each a little 
group surrounding its windows, and Cecil, who should 
have saved his grandmother from the ignominy of being 
altogether unsought and unattended, was nowhere to be 
seen. He had made a mistake, as was fully and satis- 
factorily explained afterward (when the explanation did 
no good to anyone), but, in the mean time, the ladies 
had nobody. 

Once inside the palace gates, however, and rushing up 
the broad staircases, and through the great vacant rooms, 
granny forgot everything else in the exhilaration of dis- 
covering and pointing out to Geraldine their good for- 
tune in being early enough to secure chairs in the very 
front row of the only room in which chairs at all were to 
be had. 

It was quickly filled, and then granny bade her young 
charge note the crush, the heat, and the discomfort of 
those who, shut back by the inflexible barrier, now 
poured faster and faster into the great saloon behind, 
till it looked a mere surging mass of heads and plumes. 

8 


114 


A MERE CHILD. 




Furthermore, granny explained that the ante-chamber 
in front, at present empty, whose recesses she and Geral- 
dine could view at their ease, although they in their turn 
were debarred from entering therein, would presently be 
full of the happy people who possessed the coveted en- 
tree — the right of entrance by a special door, and of 
priority of presentation — and that, as these assembled, 
it would be an amusing little pantomime to watch them 
tripping hither and thither, greeting each other, and dis- 
playing their finery — “ And looking at us, my dear, as 
they would at inferior beings,” proceeded the old lady, 
nodding her head merrily. “ They are not in reality any 
very great people at all — principally officials and their 
wives — although, of course, there are a few noteworthy 
folks among them, such as the ambassadors and foreign 
princes ; but they think a great deal of themselves on 
these days. My aunt Catherine, your great-aunt, had 
the entree ; and I remember so well what a point she 
made of never ordering her carriage on Court days before 
two o’clock. A little piece of bravado, my dear. She 
liked the neighbors to see, that was all.” So the old 
lady prattled on. 

By and by she had another pleasure. As the assem- 
bled groups settled themselves down, and had time to 
look around and take note of their surroundings, one 
after another came up from behind, pleased to recognize 
an old friend or acquaintance in the handsome, stately 
form which sat so erect in front of all, and with whom 
the lovely girl at her side was so evidently associated. 

Then it would be all joyful greetings, and renewal of 
old ties, and eager inquiries. 

What had she been about all these years ? Taking 
charge of her orphan grandchild. 

What had brought her back into the world ? Where- 
upon the orphan grandchild would be presented with an 


A MERE CHILD . 1 1 5 

air that unmistakably meant, “ Here is excuse sufficient 
for everything.” 

Perhaps granny had never been happier in her life 
than during that hour. She was quick enough to note 
the effect in every instance, and to have, moreover, a 
shrewd suspicion as to the cause of the various differ- 
ences in the reception of her intelligence. 

If it chanced, for instance, that the recipient were the 
luckless chaperon of half a dozen plain and portionless 
damsels, could she forbear to look upon Geraldine, 
beautiful, wealthy, fortunate, without a momentary envy ? 
If, again, a troublesome boy, son, nephew, or thriftless 
young cousin had to be provided for, would not the envy 
be exchanged for covetousness ? And it was only if the 
stranger were above all such consideration, and freed 
from all such encumbering remembrances, that there 
would follow the impartial and dispassionate avowal, 
“ She is a great beauty. Do let me congratulate you ! ” 
whereat the old lady would beam again. 

The time of waiting did not seem to her long at all ; 
while even Geraldine had so much to see and notice 
and mark for her own reflection afterward, that she was 
quite taken by surprise at last when the stir began within 
the ante-chamber ; and ere many minutes had passed it 
had thinned so fast, that their own barrier was with- 
drawn, and she found herself being gently but irresistibly 
urged forward. 

“ Keep by me, love ; keep by me,” whispered her 
grandmother with superfluous caution, for the two could 
hardly have parted company an they would ; and in 
the excitement of the moment Geraldine had no time 
to feel bashful or nervous ere she found herself moving 
on in single file close behind granny, and aware that some 
one else was equally close behind her. 

Beneath an arched doorway in front, it seemed to her 


ii 6 


A MERE CHILD. 


that within every few seconds a halt was made, causing 
a series of jerks to the fair procession, and the first idea 
that occurred to her inexperienced mind was that at this 
point the great event of the day took place ; but, draw- 
ing nearer, the notion was dispelled. No ; the gorgeous 
peacock-like trains were only being spread beneath that 
doorway, and a sea of heads all at once became visible 
beyond, while a monotonous voice rose ever and again, 
as one and another passed in and was lost to view. But 
what was it, then, that attracted every eye, and turned 
every head, as each fair creature sailed along over the 
polished floor toward that goal beyond ! Alack-a-day ! 
it was but a mirror; and the merry-hearted little Jerry 
of old all at once sprang to life again within the bosom 
of the elegant debutante , and she had enough ado not to 
laugh outright at the cunning little trait of human nat- 
ure. 

The laugh, however, had to be postponed to a more 
convenient season, for now granny was making her grand, 
old-fashioned curtsey, and taking her full time over it, 
ere she was hurried along by the unsympathizing officials, 
who would scarce permit her to make a reverent exit in 
what she considered a seemly manner — and next it was 
Geraldine’s own turn. 

It was said that the Queen smiled upon her. Perhaps 
Her Gracious Majesty had heard something of the young 
girl’s story and remembered it, for it is well known how 
conscientiously the presentation lists are scanned and in- 
quired into in the highest quarter ; but, at any rate, 
many others looked, and noticed, and whispered to one 
another that day. Jerry might very well have had her 
young head turned, had she given heed to it all. 

She did not. She was full of the fun of the thing when 
she got home at five o’clock, very full of how this one had 
looked, and how that one had looked, and how she could 


A MERE CHILD. 


II 7 

have wished for another view of her Sovereign, and had 
been so confused and anxious at the supreme moment 
that, indeed, she could scarcely say she had had a dis- 
tinct view at all ; but with all the sprightly chatter, there 
was no word that was not pleasant to hearken to — natural, 
lovable, innocent. 

The Raymond girls, the Ethel and Alicia of old, were 
in the drawing-room, waiting, all impatience, to hear how 
Geraldine had fared, to see how she looked, and next to 
tell of their own presentation days, to compare experi- 
ences, or note alterations. They had not a word to say 
against their cousin afterward. She had been neither 
elated,, nor self-important, nor self-conscious — she had 
been just her own old self ; and even her Aunt Charlotte 
owned that Geraldine was wonderfully little spoiled, all 
things considered. 

What Cecil had thought he kept to himself. 

He had also been in waiting, full of explanations and 
apologies, which, as we have said, fell now somewhat 
flat. 

It had been the new liveries which had upset his cal- 
culations. His grandmother had omitted to tell him 
either about them, or her smart new carriage, and never 
having seen the full-dress livery of the Campbells before, 
he had forgotten that it would be sure to be in use on the 
present occasion. 

“ But I heard you had been there all right,” he con- 
cluded. “ I met a man who had seen you. Your old 
friend Bellenden, Geraldine. Oddly enough, I stumbled 
across him to-day, though we had not met for ages.” 

“ Indeed ! ” said his grandmother, somewhat coldly. 
“ We did not see him, or any one we knew, while outside, 
did we, Geraldine ? ” 

“He saw you, however,” replied Cecil, intercepting 
his cousin’s reply. “ He was on horseback, and could 


A MERE CHILD. 


IlS 

not get near enough to catch your eye ; but he had a good 
look at you, and said he should have known Geraldine 
anywhere.” 

“ She is a good deal changed, nevertheless,” said Ger- 
aldine’s grandmother, still reserved and stately, and the 
tone in which the remark was made conveyed this : “ If 
any person now thinks to find in my granddaughter an 
unsophisticated, impulsive child, to be safely talked non- 
sense to and played with, that person is very much mis- 
taken.” 

Meantime the subject of discourse had affected in the 
prettiest manner possible to hear nothing of it. 

To Cecil’s opening sentence she had, indeed, accorded 
the proper tribute of attention, since he had directly ap- 
pealed to her ; but presently she had found herself 
obliged to turn aside, and find a seat for her Aunt Char- 
lotte, and answer her inquiries, and show her the lace 
upon her train and on her bodice, and neither Cecil nor 
his grandmother had supposed she had caught a word of 
their little colloquy. 

Of course she had, and it had been music in her ears. 

She now just cared enough about the memory of Bel- 
lenden, once so deeply, passionately beloved, to rejoice 
that he had witnessed her hour of triumph, and had not 
shared it. 

She wanted no more of him. 

He had seen her, and seen her, as she could not help 
knowing, at her radiant best, and had been compelled to 
behold only from afar, unable even to claim recognition. 

What booted it to reason out the matter? She would 
not stop to bethink herself that his view of it was 
scarcely a plain and matter-of-fact one, that there had in 
reality been no possible reason why Bellenden should not 
have made his way to her side had he taken the pains 
to do so. No, no, no; it had been nothing of the kind. 


A MERE CHILD . 119 

No, it had been the omen of the future in store for 
both. 

She should be seated aloft on her throne of youth and 
beauty, with all the world at her feet— and he, he who 
had despised and deserted her, should be the outcast who 
could not even draw near to bask in the sunlight of her 
presence. 

It was a pretty little vista, was it not ? 


CHAPTER X. 

GERALDINE BEGINS TO PAY BACK. 

“ In London how easy we visit, and meet, 

Gay pleasure’s the theme, and sweet smiles are our treat ; 
Our morning’s a round of good-humored delight. 

And we rattle, in comfort, to pleasure at night.” 

The presentation had been on a Thursday. 

Cecil Raymond declined to lunch in Mount Street on 
the following Sunday, as he had done on the two pre- 
vious ones, alleging an engagement ; and it presently 
transpired that the engagement was to breakfast with 
Sir Frederick Bellenden at his club, after which he pro- 
posed bringing Bellenden to call on his grandmother 
and cousin. 

From the speaker’s manner it was evident that a few 
civil words from a man with whom it was creditable to 
be on good terms had undone all the past ; and the way 
in which he referred to Bellenden and quoted Bellenden 
during the next five minutes, recalled the old time when 
no one had stood on a higher pinnacle in his good graces. 
The very air with which he made his further proposition 
showed that he felt secure of its being acceptable. 

Now, poor granny did not altogether like this; and 


120 


A MERE CHILD. 


for two reasons would fain that nothing of the kind had 
been suggested. She wished to have nothing further to 
do with the guest who she could not but feel had been 
ungrateful and neglectful, and she had old-fashioned 
views on the subject of Sunday afternoon calls. 

Cecil was himself of course welcome ; but she would 
have preferred his not beginning to bring friends with 
him. 

As for Geraldine, the word “ bringing ” was enough 
for her. A man that required to be “ brought ! ” A 
man, who, even after knowing that his former friends 
and hostesses were within a few streets of him, could 
not of himself step across the way as it were, but required 
to be “ brought ! ” 

An indignant sense of this was on the verge of es- 
caping, when she, however, recollected herself ; and 
recollected herself, as Cecil’s face told her, only just in 
time. 

Yes, her cousin was certainly on the watch — actually 
looking out to see whether any traces of the old flame 
remained. Foolish, absurd boy ! Did he not know her 
better than that ? Did he imagine that because he could 
be won over by the first soft sentence she was to be 
equally poor-spirited. 

She burned with shame for him. How easily he had 
pardoned everything ; how pleased he now looked to sit 
and chatter there about his friend, and his friend’s club, 
and his Sunday breakfast. Granny was gently demur- 
ring to the Sunday breakfast, well knowing what it 
meant ; and Cecil, ever ready to conciliate, was explain- 
ing and excusing, and, moreover, assuring the old lady 
that it was not his habit to accept such invitations, that 
he did so, in fact, very seldom indeed, but that he had 
not liked to refuse on the present occasion, in case it 
might have looked as if — she would understand — as if 


A MERE CHILD. 


2 


some resentment were still harbored which should be 
alike beneath a Raymond and a Campbell. 

“ We must take the world as we find it,” the young 
man was philosophically arguing ; “ we should simply 
make ourselves ridiculous if we appeared to have thought 
so much of a trifle. Bellenden is a careless fellow and 
after he had left us he had so much to do and to. think 
of, that we passed out of his memory. But he meant 
no harm, and he was as friendly as possible to me to- 
day. You would not have me appear uncharitable as 
well as unsophisticated ? ” he wound up. 

He could not have done better. “ Uncharitable ” 
won his grandmother — “ unsophisticated,” his cousin. 

No ; Mrs. Campbell would not, indeed, have him ap- 
pear, nor have him be, uncharitable, not to say un- 
christian ; and certainly, to harbor any sort of grudge 
against a friend, even though that friend had brought it 
upon himself, savored, she could not but own, of an un- 
christian temper ; wherefore, if it had been on that ac- 
count that he had met Sir Frederick Bellenden half- 
way, she could but commend her grandson, and en- 
deavor to follow his example. Bellenden should be re- 
ceived in Mount Street. And the dear old creature 
actually felt ashamed of her own feelings, and told her- 
self that old heads might sometimes take a lesson from 
young ones. 

With Geraldine Cecil’s wisdom had equally told. To 
be sure, she would not wish to seem “ unsophisticated,” 
for the world. To be sure, she had mistaken her cousin 
and misjudged him. He was not watching, he was 
warning her. He meant to convey a timely hint. 

Well, she would take his hint, but she must take it in 
her own way — not his. He was quite right to intimate 
that she would do well not to let any sense of injury or 
wrong appear ; but when it came to the practical part of 


122 


A MERE CHILD. 


the proceeding, she thought she could do better than 
he. He might know for himself. It might be right 
enough for him to accept Bellenden’s overtures,, and be 
reciprocal and responsive ; but he had not once — and 
the hot flush rose to her brow, and her teeth were set 
within her rosy lips at the thought which followed. 

“ Do bring him,” cried she the next minute. “ Do, 
granny, let Cecil bring Sir Frederick Bellenden here. I 
want to see him again. And, granny, if I am not at 
home when he comes on Sunday, you will entertain him, 
will you not ? Say you will, there’s a dear.” 

“ If you are not at home ? Where were you thinking 
of going, my love ?” inquired granny in some surprise. 

“ To the children’s service at Berkeley Chapel. You 
know that it is so near that I can easily go alone, even 
if Miss Corunna does not care to go with me. But you 
will not go, dear; so granny will be at home, Cecil, if 
you bring Captain Bellenden — there, now, I must re- 
member, and so must granny, that he is ‘ Captain Bel- 
lenden ’ no longer. I cannot think how it is that we 
both forget, unless ” — with a tinge of the old bitterness — 
“ unless it may be that we have neither seen nor heard 
anything of him since he became * Sir Frederick.’ ” 

“ Oh, shall you be out ? ” said Cecil, looking rather 
blank. 

“ I am so fond of a children’s service. And your 
sisters took me to Berkeley Chapel the first Sunday we 
were here, and I liked it so much.” 

“ But the service will be over by five o’clock, my 
dear,” her grandmother reminded her ; “ I believe it is 
over by four. And you must come in to tea, so that if 
Cecil comes then ” 

“ Oh, I never meant to come before,” said he. 

“ I may be back, perhaps,” observed Geraldine care- 
lessly. “ I only meant to say that granny would be here 


A MERE CHILD. 1 23 

for certain. It would not signify, you know, if I went 
along to Grosvenor Square to tea ” 

“ To Grosvenor Square ? To us ? ” said Cecil. “ But 
— but — do they expect you ? Of course they would be 
delighted ; but, you see, my mother always goes to her 
own room to rest, and the girls are either in theirs or off 
somewhere or other. My mother does not have people 
in at five o’clock on Sundays as they do at most houses, 
so, though I know that of course they would always 
have j you, still, you see, if nobody were in, you might 
have your walk for nothing.” 

“ Should I ? It is too hot to take walks for nothing, 
certainly,” retorted Geraldine, with a tormenting smile. 

“ You will be in at five, then ?” said he, perseveringly. 

“ No, sir, I did not say that. And I never bind my- 
self by engagements, in case I feel a desire to break them. 
If I make an engagement I keep it — I am not like some 
people ” — the allusion was not so veiled but that he 
caught it — “ wherefore prudence suggesteth making 
none.” And he felt that she did not mean him to en- 
trap her. 

He was, in consequence, somewhat surprised when 
the day and the hour arrived. 

On thinking the matter over, Geraldine had neither 
attended the serviee at Berkeley Chapel nor gone to tea 
in Grosvenor Square. Instead, she had arrayed herself 
in a dress of the softest fabric and palest tint, pinned a 
r^re bunch of lilies in her bosom, and seated herself by 
the balcony window of the little shady drawing-room. 

Five o’clock had scarcely struck ere the door-bell rang, 
and the next moment the two gentlemen were being 
ushered in. One quick throb her pulses could not but 
give, a faint shade of emotion could not but be felt — but 
outwardly the fair girl who stood up to receive them was 
all gentle smiles and sweet composure, and the hand that 


124 


A MERE CHILD. 


was laid for a moment in that of Bellenden was cool and 
quiet as his own. 

This was he, and the meeting was over ! 

The thought so engrossed Geraldine during the first 
few minutes which succeeded that, although she con- 
versed audibly and sensibly with her cousin, and knew 
and comprehended what he was talking about, she had 
to exert every effort to do so, and was aware that she 
durst not let her attention wander for an instant. 

A glance had sufficed to show that Bellenden was as 
much altered as herself. 

He was broader, stouter, redder than he had been. 
She thought he was hardly so handsome, nor so elegant 
in shape. It pleased her to note that he had a dash of 
gray on either temple. 

But his voice — his laugh ? She almost wished they 
too had changed ; she knew them so well, remembered 
them so well. 

He was talking and laughing as easily as of old, it 
seemed. Her grandmother, still intent on acting up to 
Cecil’s instructions, was benign and gracious as ever ; 
and neither in his first reception nor in aught that fol- 
lowed had he anything to complain of. 

And yet Bellenden knew, within the limits of that 
brief half-hour, what he had and had not to expect. It 
was obvious that he was not to take up his former foot- 
ing in the household ; it was equally plain that there 
were to be no reminiscences, no reverting to things past^ 
and it was markedly clear that Miss Campbell had done 
with “Jerry,” or even with “Geraldine” forever, as re- 
garded him. 

“ Quite the swagger young lady,” quoth he to himself, 
half sadly, half amused ; “ tremendously fine and fashion- 
able. I might have known it would be so. Those frank, 
simple children never last. One breath of the world 


A MERE CHILD. 1 25 

nips them in the blossoming. Why should I have ex- 
pected her to be different from others ? ” 

For he had expected it, had been struck with a sudden 
and strange sense of the beauty and innocence of that 
girlish face as he had gazed upon it, himself unseen, on 
the presentation day, and had felt thereafter a restless 
longing for another and a nearer view. He had looked 
up Cecil Raymond with that purpose — he had not dared 
to come alone. 

Yet he had thought to carry it with a high hand all 
the same. It would certainly be best not to appear as if 
he had done anything to be ashamed of, and it would go 
far toward vindicating his behavior if he could appear un- 
conscious of there having been anything about it to vin- 
dicate. With a bold front accordingly he sat and talked. 

Ah ! but he was ashamed for all that, and the truth 
seemed to glare at him out of two fiery eyes. 

Not Geraldine’s eyes, for they were never turned his 
.way at all, though they beamed large and liquid as ever 
on Cecil, or her grandmother, on any object in the room 
rather than himself; not the old lady’s, for they were 
mild, serene, benevolent, and regarded him with a calm- 
ness which he himself was far from feeling ; not Cecil’s ; 
Cecil was perfectly happy, and perfectly conscious — se- 
cure of having done the right thing, and charmed that 
all had turned out so well. 

No, the eyes were those of his own newly awakened 
and indignant conscience. 

What a fool he had made of himself ! Why could he 
not, by a little ordinary attention, have done away with 
all this awkwardness and this tiresome embarrassment ? 
A letter or two, Geraldine’s present, an invitation from 
his mother, a little civility shown to the Raymonds — 
anyone of these would have enabled him now not only 
to feel quite comfortable, but would have given him the 


126 


A MERE CHILD. 


pleasant right to be regarded in the light of one who was 
more than a mere acquaintance. lie felt all at once a 
desire to be looked upon in this light ; and the desire 
was scarcely there ere he was convinced it would never 
be realized. 

He almost sighed as Cecil looked at him, and rose to 
go. He had interchanged a few gay words with Geral- 
dine. She had shown him the flowers on her balcony, 
and had allowed, in answer to his inquiries, that she was 
charmed with all she had seen and done, and was look- 
ing forward with delight to what was next to follow. 
Both had confined themselves to London and to the 
present. The past had not been touched upon — Inch- 
marew never named. 

Then young Raymond had drawn near, and had con- 
fidentially whispered something in his cousin’s ear, at 
which the other had at once moved aside, haughty and 
vexed by the interruption, and moreover, with a keen 
and bitter recollection of having once said that Cecil 
would do well to obtain a start with the heiress. 

That start had apparently been obtained. 

“ You are going to ride with her ? ” said Sir Frederick, 
as the two walked away. “ Does she ride as well as 
ever ? ” 

“ Every bit ; and we have got her such a horse.” 

“Ah! have I seen her out?” drawled Bellenden, as 
insinuating that he might have easily done so without 
remarking it. 

“No; the horse only came up yesterday. You will 
see her out to-morrow.” 

All the world saw Geraldine out on the morrow. 

As she rode slowly up and down the sun-lit Row, 
where the shine from the glittering heavens dancing 
upon leaf and stem, the gloss on the satin-like coats of 
the horses, the flutter of fan and parasol, lace and feather 


A MERE CHILD. 


127 


among the brilliant many-tinted crowds, made the whole 
lustrous show a spectacle never to be afterward forgotten, 
the youthful heiress was herself one of its chiefest orna- 
ments. 

She had not been there before, for it had been a busy 
time of day with her, and she had not cared to go until 
she could take her place among the riders. Moreover, 
the previous weeks had not been beautified by the sud- 
den blaze of sunshine and warmth which had now drawn 
forth every lingerer ; so that, although there had been 
always the same thing in kind going on, it had not at- 
tained to its full perfection, and, hearing this, she had 
been consent to wait. 

But now what a scene of enchantment it was ! 

Sometimes cantering lightly over the soft, well- 
watered soil ; sometimes sauntering past the railings, 
scanning the loungers on the side-path and beneath the 
shade ; anon calling a halt at the corner where congre- 
gated the greatest numbers of all, and where she was in- 
formed that any who knew her, and knew she was to be 
there that day for the first time, would certainly be 
watching. 

Cecil knew exactly where to go, what to do, and when 
to stand still. 

He also knew by sight a great many people of whom, 
in her ignorance, she had barely heard, but whom she 
was apt enough to perceive she ought to know about 
and ought to understand about. Cecil evidently consid- 
ered it important that she should ; and he was very much 
in earnest, and took a great deal of pains in the matter, 
l ie was very little less of a young don than he had been 
in years past, but his wonted solemnity and profundity 
now took a different turn ; and, as a rising young man, 
and an embryo politician, and a bachelor who had his 
own rooms, and had his name down for several good 


128 


A MERE CHILD . 


clubs, and who could leave his card at a fair number of 
good houses, he was now ready to treat an acquirement 
of a certain amount of fashionable knowledge with all 
the gravity he had formerly bestowed upon his Oxonian 
life. 

Accordingly he did not allow the present excellent op- 
portunity for improving his cousin’s mind to pass with- 
out exerting himself to take advantage of it ; and pres- 
ently expressed his satisfaction thus: “You have made 
a very good beginning, Geraldine. You have been 
lucky in your day. It is not every day that brings out 
so many of the right sort of people. I don’t know when 
I have seen the place fuller,” looking round complacently. 

“ Yes ; I think it is delightful,” exclaimed she, with . 
animation. “ It is delightful altogether. The sunlight 
and the shade, and the people and the horses. I am 
afraid I shall want to come here every day, though, 
Cecil.” 

“ Well, of course ; that is what people do. It is the 
correct thing to do that. To come only now and then 
is nonsense. You don’t get seen, nor known, nor any- 
thing. You will soon begin to notice the most part of 
the riders who are here now — you will get to know them 
all by sight — they come regularly. It is quite the thing 
to do.” 

“ How glad I am I have got my beautiful 4 Sir Lance- 
lot ! ”’ patting his neck. 

“ Ay, he is quite the right horse to have. I dare say 
he has been very much admired. Your horse is scarcely 
less looked at than yourself in the Row.” 

“ I should hope a great deal more,” said Geraldine, 
laughing, “if ‘Sir Lancelot’ is only to be less looked 

at ” and then she stopped suddenly, and bent over 

her saddle, and was too busily arranging the bunch of 
flowerets in her buttonhole to proceed further. 


A MERE CHILD. 


129 


“ There is Bellenden over there, observed Cecil, all 
unconsciously ; “ shall we ride up to him ? I dare say 
he is come to have a look at you.” 

“ Not likely. And he is speaking to other people. I 
do not think he has seen us, so we need not trouble 
about him ; and I am tired of the corner,” quoth his 
companion, turning her horse’s head round ; “ I should 
like to take another turn up and down, Cecil, if you do 
not mind. Let us go the whole length of the ride once 
more — just once more — before we go in to luncheon. 
Come,” and she had set off ere he replied. 

Nothing loth, Cecil followed. 

He had been willing to speak to Bellenden, it was 
true, as he always was willing to be seen in company 
with a well-known presentable acquaintance — but he was 
more than pleased that Geraldine should not care about 
it, and should prefer “another turn up and down” with 
himself. They walked past Sir Frederick — tolerably 
close past, too — chatting gayly together, as though 
neither perceived him ; and presently he could see their 
horses break into a canter, and the two figures disappear 
among the other riders. 

He almost felt as if he had been insulted. 

He had come there, as Cecil had said to see Geral- 
dine. 

He did not frequent the ride at that hour, for the 
scene had long ago palled upon him, and he had not his 
horses in town ; but he had felt he should like to be- 
hold the little horsewoman of Inchmarew mounted once 
more. Why should he not ? 

She had been quite civil to him, and there was no pos- 
sible reason why the two should not be good friends, or, 
at any rate, polite, sociable acquaintances in future. 

It was not to be expected that she should be as de- 
monstrative and open-hearted as when she was a child — 
9 


130 


A MERE CHILD. 


nay, it was hardly perhaps to be expected that she should 
think as highly of him even in her secret soul, as she had 
once cared not to hide that she had done ; but he did not 
think he had himself altered, or, at least, so altered as 
that Geraldine should withdraw from him all ordinary 
liking. 

She had certainly not been warm in her greeting the 
day before, but neither had she been frigid. Had she 
been one or other, he would have known what to make 
of it. But, as it was, he had (thanks to Cecil) been 
baffled ; and the only solution of the problem which had 
at first occurred to him had been too disagreeable to 
have been long contemplated. But it now recurred with 
renewed force. 

Her indifference could mean nothing else than that 
he was now powerless either to attract or repel ; and 
whether that powerlessness were the result of any change 
in himself, or whether it proceeded from the ascendancy 
of a rival, it did not greatly signify. Either way it was 
bad enough. 

That he had been seen and marked as he stood there 
in the bright May sunlight, he felt an instant conviction. 
He had himself been watching the pair for some little 
time previously, and had known the exact moment when 
each had almost simultaneously discovered him. When 
Geraldine had turned her horse’s head, he had fancied 
her about to approach and renew his acquaintanceship, 
and had responded to the movement instantly — and 
then the two had walked slowly by, to all appearance 
taken up solely with each other ! 

It had been done deliberately ; it must have been 
done of set purpose. 

Had he shown — ? But he had shown nothing. He 
did not think that any regret, or pique, or annoyance 
either with himself, or with them, had been visible the 


4 MERE CHILD. 


131 

previous afternoon, and, therefore, to pass him by so 
markedly must have been simply owing to the state of 
their own feelings. They had not cared to be intruded 
upon. They could not be troubled with the presence of 
an outsider. 

He went away caring infinitely more about the whole 
than he had done when he came. 


CHAPTER XT. 

OUTSIDE A FISHMONGER’S WINDOW. 

“ In London, if folks ill-together are put, 

A bore may be dropt, or a quiz may be cut, 

We change without end ; and if lazy, or ill, 

All wants are at hand, and all wishes at will.” 

A few days after this, as Bellenden was strolling up 
Bond Street at an early hour — for he was an earlier man 
now than he had been wont to be — he saw coming tow- 
ard him Geraldine and Miss Corunna on the same side 
of the pavement. 

Who the latter might be he knew not ; but he took 
off his hat, and half paused, as hoping that something 
more than a mere bow might be forthcoming from the 
light figure nearest to him. 

Nothing was. The ladies passed on ; and their ap- 
pearance, or rather Geraldine’s, having awakened afresh 
a train of thought becoming rapidly familiar to his 
breast, he stood still for a moment, absently gazing into 
a favorite shop window, without, on this occasion, seeing 
what it contained. 

The shop was Grove’s, well known to all lovers of 
angling, and it was never passed by Bellenden without 
a thorough survey of its cool, fresh, shining, tempting 


132 


A MERE CHILD. 


contents. His footsteps ceased accordingly of them- 
selves, and he was to all appearance completely en- 
grossed, when, just as he was turning to proceed, Miss 
Campbell came tripping back, and alone. 

She had dropped her companion at the Grosvenor 
Gallery, and was hurrying home in time to make ready 
for her ride. Bellenden could hardly have avoided the 
meeting had he wished to do so, and, as it was, he 
looked her full in the face, and the look was such that it 
could not be ignored. For there was something sad, 
affronted, almost piteous in it ; and merciless and whole- 
hearted as the young girl felt, she could not pass on 
without impropriety. It was the first time she had ever 
seen any man look at her like that. 

On the Sunday Bellenden had been cheerful and soci- 
able, and she had had no idea that he had not felt as 
brisk as he had looked ; on the Monday she had not 
seen him at all, except in the distance. The eager 
movement forward had not indeed been lost upon her, 
and it had been delightful so coolly to frustrate it ; but 
she had not supposed she had been able to cause any- 
thing beyond a faint twinge of mortification. How 
soul-satisfying it would be if it should now prove that 
she had really the capacity to do more ! 

“ I was thinking of you just now,” said he, looking 
down upon her. He could still look down upon her, 
tall as she had grown. 

“ Well, yes, I passed a minute ago,” replied Geraldine, 
promptly. “ I suppose you are studying this fishmon- 
ger’s window ? Everyone does, I think. I can never 
pass it by myself if I have a moment to spare ” — “ which 
I have not to-day,” she was about to add, when he in- 
terrupted her. 

“ They remind me,” he said, “ of the whiting bank at 
Inchmarew.” 


A MERE CHILD. 


133 


“ Which ? The cod ? Or the turbot ? Or the lob- 
sters ? ” cried Geraldine, merrily. “ Surely you forget. 
We had none of these at Inchmarew. We have only 
common things there ; but, of course, you have forgot- 
ten ” 

“ I have forgotten nothing.” 

“ No, really ? But I must run, or they will think I 
have forgotten what o’clock it is. I am to ride with my 
cousin ; and I only just took a moment to see my old 
governess off on a picture hunt ’’ 

“ Was that your old governess ?” said Bellenden, with 
still the same dangerously retrospective tone ; “ I — I 
should have looked at her with much greater interest 
had I known.” 

Whereat Geraldine — all credit to her — stared at him. 
Stared, as blankly and magnificently as though she had 
been born and bred in Belgravia. What on earth did he 
mean ? the stare demanded. What was he thinking of ? 
The man must have gone crazy. 

“ Good-by,” she said the next moment, no further 
comment seeming to be needed. “ Good-by,” and away 
she stepped as light as a feather, looking prettier and 
friskier than ever in her dainty summer robe, with her 
little white sunshade bobbing overhead. As long as she 
was within sight, even though her back was toward him, 
she kept up the smile and a trace of the stare — but once 
within doors, and within her own room, the scene 
changed. 

“You would, you hypocrite ?” blazed forth the little 
vixen in sudden fury, “ you would ? And you think to 
make me now believe — you dare almost openly to insinu- 
ate that you have kept up your interest in — in me through 
all these years? These years during which you have 
never vouchsafed one of us a word or thought ? You 
would like to begin it all over again, would you not ? 


134 


A MERE CHILD. 


You would^get me alone, and whisper your soft pleasant 
things, and bring me gifts, and tell me to remember you 
by them, and draw me on to be so foolish and so hateful, 
that I cannot think of it now, ?iow , without a cringe 
within myself. No, sir — not again. Not a second time, 
Sir Frederick Bellenden. I think I am a match for you 
now. What is more, you shall have to own it. I’ll not 
avoid him ; oh dear, no ! I’ll speak to him ; dance with 
him ; ride with him ; almost — all but flirt with him, be- 
cause granny would not like it. But if he ever tries again 
to be sentimental, or to make allusions and give hints, as 
he did just now, let him beware ! Fie does not yet know 
little Jerry of Inchmarew.” 

The next thing was Jerry’s first ball, and a famous ball 
she had of it. 

Of course she could have had almost any partners she 
chose ; for the fame of her had begun to be whispered, 
and the fashionable world was on the alert about the 
pretty heiress. Every one was asking his neighbor about 
her comings and goings, the genuineness of her charms, 
and the extent of her rent roll. Old and young alike 
thought that an introduction, even if it went no further, 
could do no harm. Lady Raymond, somewhat sourly, 
warned her mother of the necessity of being careful. 

“ People are so outrageous,” she declared. “ Really 
one is ashamed of one’s fellows nowadays. Directly a girl 
with money appears upon the scene, the men swarm after 
her like a hive of bees. And a fine, unencumbered estate 
like Inchmarew is not in the market every day. Pray 
be particular as to whose acquaintance you permit.” 

It did just occur to Mrs. Campbell that her daughter 
might have seen some attraction for the bees save in the 
fine, unencumbered estate, and that she spoke with some 
acerbity when she described Geraldine as “a girl with 
money.” It made her bridle up, and cut Charlotte some- 


A MERE CHILD . 


135 


what short in her next remark, so that Lady Raymond 
feared afterward that she had not on the whole done 
quite so well as she had expected. She had meant to 
suggest that application as to the character and tenets 
held by the bees in question should be made by her 
mother to her son, and that Cecil alone should furnish 
the password to granny’s good graces ; but she was 
obliged to be satisfied with vaguely hinting at what she 
had intended putting into good round terms. 

As for Cecil, himself, he was perfectly satisfied with the 
situation as it stood. In the double character of his 
grandmother’s aide-de-camp, and Geraldine’s instructor 
and companion, he went about with the ladies every- 
where ; and, on the occasion of the ball in question, had 
the honor of presenting his cousin with her bouquet, of 
facing her in the carriage, and of following her up the' 
broad, red-carpeted steps into the festive halls. 

The scene that here met her eyes was as new as all the 
rest had been to the little Highlander ; but, true to her- 
self, she now walked demurely through the banks of 
flower and shrub, and between the long lines of silvery 
lamps, looking neither to right nor to left lest Cecil should 
see aught amiss in her deportment. They were rather 
late, and dancing had begun. 

Truth compels us to state that Geraldine was not a 
good dancer. All the running and climbing in the world 
will not teach the swing of the waltz without some pains 
being taken in its accomplishment ; and, accordingly, al- 
though partners were rife, as we have said, they speedily 
discovered that the pretty heiress did not care to be long 
upon the floor, and that they might joyfully exchange 
the fatiguing exercise for a quiet stroll through the gal- 
leries, or, better still, a lounge under the awning of the 
balcony. 

The latter was the most affected by the lady. 


A MERE CHILD. 


136 

She had never done anything of the kind, and never 
seen anything of the kind before. 

To be sitting or standing outside a London ball-room, 
amidst a crowd of ball-goers, in her brilliant ball-dress, 
on a warm, sweet-scented summer night, while the music 
went tinkling on within the vast saloons, and the dan- 
cers went circling round, and soft voices and laughter and 
light pattering feet filled the air on every side — it was 
like fairyland. She wondered if all the girls there were 
having as good a time as she. 

Some of them looked at her rather hard, she thought ; 
and so, for that matter, did the men. What was it that 
they saw ? 

With all her shrewdness and her inborn share of native 
self-importance, it did not occur to her that they were 
saying, “That is Miss Campbell. That is the great 
Scotch heiress,” and that, thereupon, some fell a-musing, 
and some to picking her to pieces. 

“ My dear, you must positively stick a little closer to 
your grandmother, or to me,” her Aunt Charlotte ad- 
monished her somewhat sharply at last. “ Do as your 
cousins do. Ethel and Alicia are always coming back- 
wards and forwards to us ; they show they are under 
our charge by staying with us when they are not dan- 
cing.” 

“ But I have been engaged for every dance.” 

“ Where then have you been ? You have not been in 
the ball-room.’’ 

“ Outside. On the balcony ” began Geraldine, 

but could proceed no further. 

“ That does not do, my dear ; it does — not — do” 
frowned her aunt, with a terrific whisper. “ I thought 
you would have known better. Ethel and Alicia never 
go out on the balconies — never. I ought to have told 
you. Cecil ought to have told you.” 


A MERE CHILD. 1 37 

“ Why, I have just been there with Cecil,” said Jerry, 
opening her eyes. 

“ Oh ? ” and Lady Raymond wished she had held her 
tongue. “ Oh ? — Oh ? — Oh ? — ” she said, not knowing 
what else to say. “ Well, of course, that — then ! — 
makes a difference, to be sure,” in an entirely altered 
tone, “ to be sure that — ahem ! — completely alters the 
case. It is only my anxiety that you should be the 
same as one of my own daughters, you know, Geraldine ; 
and, no doubt, Cecil — Cecil, no doubt — ” floundering on. 
“ I dare say he took care as to whom you were with,” 
she concluded, tamely. 

“ He introduced nearly all of them.” 

The next moment, however, brought a new introduc- 
tion. “ Geraldine, my love,” said her grandmother’s 
voice, “ General Dacre wishes to know you. He was a 
friend of your poor father’s,” added she, lower, “ he 
asked of himself to be presented ; ” and there stood a 
fine, soldierly-looking man, with crisp, gray hair, a thick, 
gray mustache, an aquiline nose, and a magnificent star 
of diamonds on his breast. Jerry had never felt prouder 
in her life. 

A general with a star, at whom, for all her eighteen 
summers, she would only have ventured to gaze in hum- 
ble admiration, had he not himself solicited a nearer ac- 
quaintance ! She did indeed feel honored, as she took 
his arm, and moved about here and there, fancying all 
around must gaze at the pair with wonder and with 
envy. 

But all too quickly came the disillusion. 

This fine old warrior, whose notice had been felt to 
confer such distinction, and for whom she had been 
racking her brains to find topics not too frivolous and 
foolish, proved to be neither more nor less than a flighty 
old fool, anxious still to play his part among the dandies 


138 


A MERE CHILD. 


of the day, and, in consequence, to be seen in attendance 
on any pretty girl who was the mode. That the reign- 
ing belle of the evening chanced to be the daughter of 
an old friend dead and gone, was a piece of luck not to 
be thrown away ; but having made a stepping-stone of 
the fact, he had not had her ear many minutes ere he 
had thrown it aside. He had no notion of being longer 
looked upon in the light in which he had first presented 
himself, and, indeed, soon began to twaddle so foolishly 
and so flippantly, that the poor child, disgusted and 
ashamed, begged to be taken back to her chaperon, with 
a peremptoriness which admitted of no denial. 

She was very short and reserved with her next part- 
ner, an elegant youth, who forthwith began the usual 
prattle about Ascot, Sandown, Hurlingham, and the 
like, to which she was now becoming accustomed. She 
would make quick work of him, Jerry thought ; and 
with the tip of her pretty nose in the air, she all at once 
volunteered a piece of information which she had not 
hitherto been eager to impart. 

“ I know nothing of these places, 5 ’ she said, “ I am 
just come up. My home is in the Highlands of Scot- 
land .’ 5 

Wonder of wonders, the effect was precisely contrary 
to that expected ! The Highlands of Scotland ? The 
Scottish Highlands were his Paradise, his Elysium. 
His whole face lighted up at the mere mention of their 
name. He was a Highlander himself, born and bred 
within the wilds of Lochaber. Of course he had known 
that Miss Campbell must be Scotch, probably from 
Argyleshire — with a smile — but he did not know, he did 
not think, he thought girls cared for London, and — and 
— but did she really care for the heather, and the sea, 
and the tartan, and the pipes ? He was learning the 
pipes himself. He belonged to a Highland regiment, 


A MERE CHILD. 


1 39 


and he was learning from his own pipe-major, the finest 
pipe-major in the service. The pipe-major had himself 
composed a “ Quickstep ’’ and a “ Hornpipe,” and was 
to play one or other of them, he was not sure which, at 
the Northern Meeting that autumn. Did Miss Camp- 
bell ever go to the Northern Meeting ? No ? Well, he 
could not say that he cared for it very much himself, it 
was getting so awfully big and cockneyfied. Still, he 
should go, as their pipe-major was to compete — and so 
on, and so on. 

Never had he had a more appreciative listener. There 
was a true ring in the lad’s school-boy enthusiasm which 
delighted and exhilarated Geraldine, and which came 
like a breath of fresh air after the false, artificial vapors 
which before had been supposed to be her proper atmos- 
phere. 

It was not, however, lost upon her that she had twice 
been misled within one short half-hour; so granny was 
not wrong in thinking experience was being gained, to 
which, we may here add, every succeeding evening 
brought its quota. 

Bellenden was never at the balls. He was not a danc- 
ing man, and never had been ; so that having persistently 
declined invitations hitherto, he could not now have 
turned round and accepted them, even had he wished 
— for none were sent him. 

Neither did he so wish ; he only disliked to hear 
young Raymond incessantly reverting to things that 
had happened the night before, or the night before that, 
whenever it happened — and it happened pretty often — 
that he was in company with the two cousins. He met 
them on most mornings in the Row, pretty often in the 
afternoons, too, at one place or another — (perhaps he 
noted where they were going) — and now and then in 
Mount Street. Not by themselves, of course ; but, 


140 


A MERE CHILD. 


what was grandmother, or ex-governess, or cousin ? 
Only some one standing by for propriety’s sake, some- 
one, too, sure to be engrossed with the pictures, or the 
music, or the art treasures, or whatever it was that Ger- 
aldine had, by the way, gone to see, but which Bellen- 
den very much doubted whether she ever did see. She 
never looked at them after he was there, at any rate. 
She did not look at him much, neither. Her eyes, her 
ears, her questions and answers were for Cecil — or so it 
seemed to Cecil’s rival. 

Still Bellenden waited. There were times — solitary 
moments — when he did not feel quite so sure about this 
as he might have been. He had sometimes been himself 
shot a glance, a flash of the eye, a furtive, swiftly-with- 
drawn, searching, home-thrusting look, which puzzled 
him. 


CHAPTER XII. 

“THEY ARE FULL OF PURPLE HELIOTROPE,” HE 
ANSWERED. 

“ In the town, if it rain, it spoils not our hopes, 

What harm though it pours for whole nights and whole days. 
The eye has her choice, and the fancy her scope, 

It spoils not our prospects, and stops not our ways.” 

Lady Raymond had given her ball, her one ball of the 
season, and now thought it time to have something else ; 
and, it being the end of June, her ladyship presently 
fixed on a strawberry tea, with a recital, or lecture, or 
concert, or something of that nature, by way of food for 
the mind. Eventually a recital was decided on, the prop- 
er person for the same engaged, the ices, cakes, cream 
and strawberries ordered, and two or three hundred in- 
vitations sent out. 


A MERE CHILD. 


141 

“ I asked Bellenden, yesterday,” announced her son 
one morning, as the family sat in conclave. “ I say, 
mother, I think he has been rather neglected among us, 
for when I gave him the invitation, though 1 added that 
I did not think these sort of things were in his line, he 
laughed and said he was far too proud of being invited 
to refuse.” 

“ I am sure I should have invited him if I had ever 
thought he would have cared to come,” said she. “ But 
he never called on us till this summer, and then I only 
took his doing so once to be because he had taken Ethel 
in to dinner at Fitzwilbraham’s.” 

“ Perhaps it was,” said Cecil, significantly. “ At all 
events,” he added after a pause, “ he is coming to the 
tea, and I should say we might ask him to dinner. Did 
you not say we had a place vacant, that some one had 
failed for Thursday ? ” 

“ He would never come on so short a notice, my 
dear.” 

“I don’t know about that. Judging from to-day, I 
should say he would. He does not go out half so much 
as he used to do, and it might happen he was disengaged. 
At all events he could not object to being asked.” 

It ended in his carrying off the note in his pocket, and 
the same evening saw it accepted. 

“ I really don’t know what has come over the fellow,” 
Cecil privately informed his mother. “ It was no fancy 
of mine, he really did look delighted when he read your 
note, and said he would come straight away, without 
referring to his engagements, or anything. I dare say 
he was engaged, but he is not the man to stick at that ; 
he would find an excuse sharp enough if he wanted one; 
and he evidently meant to come to us. Do you think — 
can it be Ethel ? How long did she have of him? And 
did it strike you that he was taken with her ? ” 


142 


A MERE CHILD. 


“ I certainly observed that he went up to her as soon 
as the gentlemen appeared after dinner,” replied her 
ladyship, “ but we had such a very short time in the 
drawing-room before we had to leave, and as Ethel said 
nothing, and we met so many people that same evening 
at Lady Marion’s dance, I forgot all about Sir Frederick 
Bellenden. He is a remarkably fine-looking man, and, 
I am told, popular in the country. He is, I suppose, 
respectable?” and she looked inquiringly at her son, for 
the same idea was in both their minds, and up to her 
lights Lady Raymond was a good mother, and it was a 
sine qua non with her that any applicant for the hand of 
either daughter must be “ respectable.’’ 

“ Oh, I should say particularly so,” rejoined Cecil. 
“ I have — ah — been making inquiries about him once or 
twice lately. He lives now almost entirely upon his 
own place, and has gone in for being the country gentle- 
man, and all that. He seems quite different from what 
he used to be in several ways ; hardly cares enough for 
appearances, you know, whereas he used to be such a 
very great swell. He still goes to the same tailor, but 
his boots yesterday were simply disgraceful. Made by 
some village shoemaker down at Bellenden, I should 
say.” 

“ And very right if they were,” said Lady Raymond, 
briskly. “ A landed proprietor ought to encourage his 
own people. And he has stood for Parliament, too, I 
hear ? Very right, very proper. I did not much care 
for him as Captain Bellenden, I own ; he was too much 
the man of fashion for me, but since he has, as you say, 
turned his attention to a more sensible and rational mode 
of life, why, there is no reason — no reason ” — and she 
drew herself up emphatically, “ why he should not come 
to our house as often as ever he pleases.” 

Perhaps it was in accordance with this conclusion that 


A MERE CHILD. 143 

it was arranged to give Bellenden the agreeable Ethel as 
his partner at the Thursday dinner-party. 

Ethel, if not strictly good-looking, was charming and 
accomplished enough, and had enough conversation, and 
presence, and deportment to make her quite sufficiently 
attractive, her mother felt, for any sensible man, especi- 
ally for one who had now settled down on his own 
estates, and was not ashamed to be seen in Pall Mall in 
boots made by his own village shoemaker. 

It is impossible to say to what the indescribable pleasure 
she experienced in the mental contemplation of those 
boots can be attributed. They seemed to her to be a 
landmark in the young baronet’s life. In them she felt 
she had something tangible, indisputable, to point to, 
something to take hold of. They formed a distinct line 
of demarcation between the past and present in her eyes. 
A man who could wear stout village boots, roughly toed 
and broadly heeled, at his club and up and down St. 
James’s and Piccadilly, must be, let who would gainsay 
it — a man of resolution and principle ; a man, in short, 
worthy of herself, her family, and her daughter. 

She prepared for her Thursday dinner-party with a 
sense of unwonted exhilaration. 

Geraldine was to be present at it, but not Mrs. Camp- 
bell, who was to take her granddaughter on to a very 
grand reception at some foreign embassy, and who con- 
sidered she would not be equal to more on one night. 
Granny had sometimes been a little overdone of late, and 
now husbanded her strength more jealously. She would, 
she said, call for Geraldine a little before eleven o’clock. 

“And Cecil goes with them,” said Lady Raymond, 
informing her husband. “ He has secured an invitation 
for himself, although he could not get one for us. It is 
a pity the girls should not go, I must say, for it would 
have been such an excellent opportunity for them to 


144 


A MERE CHILD. 


have talked French, and they so seldom have that oppor- 
tunity; but, however, I am glad Cecil goes. Geraldine 
will not feel uncomfortable if she has him, even in a 
room full of foreigners. I dare say her Freneh is poor 
enough ! What advantages can she have had in that 
out-of-the-way place, you know ? ” 

“ Humph ! She seems to do uncommonly well with- 
out them,” retorted the old peer, with a knowing look. 
It struck him that if his wife should now be lamenting 
the few opportunities his daughters had for airing a lan- 
guage the advantage of acquiring which had been so 
often dinned into his ears, he hardly saw the force of her 
arguments. Here was her niece, whom he understood — 
for he kept his ears open — to be running the gauntlet as 
one of the acknowledged beauties and fortunes of the 
season, being lamented over, moreover, for a deficiency 
which in all probability would never come to light. It 
was humorous, and Lord Raymond had more humor 
than any of his family. He saw the fun of the thing, 
and his eyes twinkled. 

“ So Jerry goes and they stay away,” he said ; “ well, 
I don’t suppose it will be much odds in the long run. 
You do not imagine the embassy is a desert island of 
France ? If Jerry likes to sport her lingo, the moun- 
seers no doubt will let her, and pay her every compli- 
ment about it under the sun ; but I warrant she needs 
none of it to help her along.” 

“ My dear Raymond, not to speak French looks so 
shockingly ignorant.” 

“Which is worst? Not to speak it, or to speak it 
badly ? ” 

“ Really, I hardly know. Both are bad.” 

“ Well, I don’t speak it at all, and you, my dear, speak 
it abominably — even I can perceive that ; — so now which 
of us is the most ‘ shockingly ignorant,’ eh ? I dare say 


A MERE CHILD. 


145 


little Geraldine could give us points equally,” added my 
lord, who was a bit of a bear, and who now went off 
chuckling over the snub so happily administered. 

His wife however turned to Cecil for consolation. 

“ I am very glad you are going to the foreign reception 
on Thursday,” she said; “but I do wish, Cecil, you could 
have obtained an invitation for your sisters, also. You 
know what excellent linguists they are, and it is really a 
pity they should not have this opportunity for showing 
it. Sir Frederick Bellenden is a good French scholar, 
also, I remember hearing,” added she, carelessly. 

“ He is not likely to be going, mother.” 

“ Is he not ? But no doubt he could go if he chose, 
and if we went, we could give him a seat in our carriage, 
and all go comfortably together. You will, of course, 
accompany my mother and Geraldine.” 

“ I do not think he would care to go,” responded Cecil, 
following her train of thought with acumen and sym- 
pathy. “ But I will see what can be done. I will try 
to-day, and if I succeed, I will take care that Bellenden 
knows.” 

Then Lady Raymond went out and herself ordered 
her turbot and salmon, her whitebait, and larks, and 
truffles, and what not — for she was by no means too 
great a lady to know anything of such matters, and al- 
though she had her cook in town, the old housekeeper 
had been left behind to potter about the rooms, get the 
chimneys cleaned, and the carpets shaken, get the proper 
“ spring cleaning,” in short, generally accomplished — so 
that her ladyship, having held high conference with the 
lesser luminary, willingly proceeded to do her part — by 
no means an unpleasant one — of driving about* on a 
lovely June morning, ordering in all that was grateful 
to the eye, and tempting to the palate, from fishmongers 
and poulterers and fruiterers. 

IO 


A MERE CHILD. 




146 


Her mind was very busy, and her heart light that glad- 
some morning. She shook her head quite graciously at 
the persevering flower-girls, who would not be dissuaded 
from hovering round her carriage in hopes of a purchaser ; 
she did not scold her coachman, who trundled her through 
some long, disagreeable, and narrow streets, whereas 
she could herself have shown him a quicker and better 
route ; she praised the freshness of the fish and flowers, 
the size of the pigeons, and the plumpness of the poultry. 
Nothing came amiss to her. 

If only she could be thus driving about, and stepping 
in and out of the shops, ordering her darling Ethel’s 
trousseau ! 

Or, even dear Geraldine’s — dear to her as a daughter 
already — as she was ready to assure Cecil at any moment 
when he should make known to her the crowning of his 
hopes and her own. 

She would not more willingly exert herself for the one 
than for the other, for the daughter than for the niece. 

And as for the young people themselves, everyone had 
but to see that Cecil and Geraldine were made for each 
other. 

From his boyhood her son had made Inchmarew his 
second home ; and how delightful it would be for her 
dear mother, now in the decline of life, to have him come 
and take up his abode there permanently, instead of hav- 
ing to undergo the anxiety and uncertainty of finding 
out who or what some other choice of Geraldine’s might 
prove to be. 

The risk was always so great when an heiress chose 
among her suitors. But such a man as Cecil ! And 
such a- favorite as he had always been of his grand- 
mother’s ! Could anything be more perfect ? 

Strange to say, granny did not see it so. 

She was fond of young Raymond, her only grandson, 


A MERE CHILD. 


147 


regarding him in the light of a dear, kind, useful boy, 
whom she could talk to or not, just as she chose ; who 
could be left by himself in the drawing-room to wait if 
she were not inclined to come down to him at any time ; 
whom she could dictate to on some points, and take 
counsel with on others ; who was, in short, unimpeach- 
able in the capacity in which he at present stood — but 
she could not see him in any other. Least of all did she 
fancy his hanging his hat up permanently at Inchmarew, 
and her beautiful Geraldine, the pride of her heart, the 
queen of the day, going no further and faring no better 
than only her cousin, whom she might have had any 
moment of her life, and without budging an inch from 
her own doorstep. 

Not but what the boy was well enough, and had he 
been anyone else — anyone but the lad she had seen grow 
up through all the stages of petticoats and nurserydom, 
and jackets and trousers and school-boydom — she might 
have put up with him ; she would have liked her child to 
be “ my lady ” — yes ; and she would not have minded 
some of the Campbell money passing into the Raymonds’ 
hands ; but — but — and the upshot was that she had 
hitherto declined to perceive any hints and innuendoes 
thrown out upon the subject. 

Charlotte had thought her mother uncommonly dense 
at first, but had latterly wondered whether there had not 
been some cause for the slight deafness, or absence of 
mind, or the like with which the old lady had parried 
her attempts. She was not altogether sorry that Geral- 
dine was to come alone— as she could do to her own 
aunt’s house — on the Thursday. 

Geraldine was to have Cecil’s arm to the dinner-table, 
of course. 

Cecil had not said a word when the paper with its list 
of names and appropriations had been submitted for his 


148 


A MERE CHILD. 


approval ; but she had understood, nevertheless, that all 
was right. And when it had further come to light that, 
by Lady Raymond’s adjustment of her table, Geraldine 
would have on her other side a quiet old gentleman, 
whose attention would certainly be fixed upon his plate 
during the greater portion of the meal, Cecil had still 
cheerfully sanctioned everything. 

But alas ! for the “ best laid schemes o’ mice and 
men ! ” 

Thursday came, and with it the appointed guests, save 
and except one — a lady. 

A lady, and a somewhat important one, had been de- 
tained by illness ; and poor Lady Raymond’s face fell at 
least an inch as she strove not to appear too much dis- 
concerted on her own account, and sufficiently anxious 
on that of her friend. 

But it was hard work. 

Here was Mr. Le Masserer, their county member, a 
man of considerable standing, their own neighbor and 
ally, yet not one too intimately known — here was he left 
in, the lurch. A man with a temper and a dignity more- 
over, and worst of all, a man of whom Lord Raymond 
had a favor to ask. 

It was out of the question that he should be unpro- 
vided for, whoever was. And she had not a minute to 
consider, and here was her husband signalling to her 
with raised eyebrows and portentous side-glances, and at 
any moment the dinner might be announced. 

She murmured one word in his ear. He nodded. 
Another whisper. Another acquiescing nod. The next 
instant it was “Mr. Le Masserer, will you take my 
daughter Ethel in to dinner? We had hoped to have 
given you Lady Dawlish, but she has, unfortunately, 
failed us,” with the necessary explanation. 

So far, well ; but, of course, Lady Dawlish’s defection 


A MERE CHILD. 


149 


could no more be permitted to bereave Sir Frederick 
Bellenden than Mr. LeMasserer. In a trice he had been 
coupled with Geraldine Campbell, and the unfortunate 
Cecil was seen to be the victim of the whole, the stranded 
solitary, the one who had a real and just cause for utter- 
ing maledictions on her ladyship’s complaint, her ab- 
sence, and the havoc she had wrought. 

He could not even slip in on his cousin’s other side. 

All the table had been disarranged when at last he got 
down, and the places on either side of Bellenden and his 
partner had been filled, and as neither of them had heard 
a word as to the cause of disarray, or indeed had been 
aware of any disarray at all, all having been so quietly 
and elegantly managed, each was now silently wondering 
why they had been so brought together? Bellenden 
conjectured that his hostess must be a sensible woman 
who would not throw her daughter at anyone’s head — 
Geraldine fancied it must be Cecil’s doing. 

He was always speaking to her of Bellenden, and the 
more she showed that the subject was distasteful, the 
more would it seem as if he were impelled to pursue it. 
That he should have desired his mother to deliver her 
over for the next two hours to the sole society and en- 
tertainment of a man for whom he was aware she had 
once experienced a feeling which she would fain now 
have buried in oblivion, was strange, and was hardly 
like Cecil, invariably attentive, courteous, and obliging; 
but if it had been done from a desire on the part of the 
extremely well-mannered young gentleman that she 
should vindicate her own claim to an equal share of 
good-breeding by her deportment on so trying an occa- 
sion, she was ready to carry out his wishes. 

Bellenden was now, she told herself, less than nothing 
to her. She could meet him on the most perfectly easy 
and equal footing, and so far from being dazzled by his 


150 


A MERE CHILD. 


perfections, and panting for his notice, she could now 
coolly rejoice in any opportunity which offered for dis- 
concerting and perplexing her childish hero. 

She had hardly hoped to have met with one at her 
aunt’s. It had been a surprise to her when he had 
walked in, and a still greater one when he had offered 
her his arm. Oh, what that offer would once have 
meant ! 

Now, she had risen as self-possessed as any woman 
there, and had rippled forward across the room, and 
down the broad staircase, looking her prettiest, and 
smiling her gayest, and laughing within herself at the 
merry time she meant to have of it. 

For she could see that he was grave and rather anx- 
ious. That meant that he would be sure to stumble on 
to dangerous ground presently ; and then — and then she 
would lead him on, lead him gayly on, wily, witching, 
Will-o’-the-wisp that she was! — until she had got him 
fast into a quagmire, hopelessly fast and bound, when 
she would mock him to his face, and go off with a flash, 
leaving nothing but darkness behind. 

She could bide her time, she would not hurry any- 
body. 

V ery demurely passed the first courses. 

Miss Campbell was engaged with her soup, her fish, 
the pretty flowers on the table, the heat of the evening, 
the forthcoming reception at the foreign embassy, the 
concert she had been to in the afternoon. 

Sir Frederick was quietly listening, and when necessary 
responding. So far he had not afforded any sport. 

Nor did he by any means seek to engross her, as she 
had somehow fancied he would have done ; on the con- 
trary, he allowed long intervals to elapse without speak- 
ing at all, and when these were seized upon and made 
use of by Geraldine’s garrulous neighbor on the other 


A MERE CHILD. 15 1 

side, she was provoked to find how indifferent he seemed 
to be toward taking up the reins again. 

But one thing he neglected utterly; and this, of which 
he himself seemed absolutely unconscious, was taken 
notice of by her at once — he entirely omitted the nec- 
essary civilities toward the lady on his other hand. If 
addressed by her, he would rouse himself with a start, 
as though unaware of the presence of anyone so near, 
and when he had replied to her overture, he would drop 
the subject. At length she gave over taking notice of 
him, and Geraldine marked this also. 

“ I wonder, I very much wonder what he is thinking 
about ?” quoth the little cat to herself at last. 

Now perhaps Bellenden hardly knew himself. 

Almost from the first moment, from his first sight of 
her on her presentation day he had been conscious of a 
new feeling about this lovely girl. There had been a 
burst of recollection, of tenderness, and of resolve. 

He would renew the old friendship, make up for the 
past, and make his way in the future. 

Then he had been thrown back on the very threshold 
of the pretty castle in the air, and had found himself shut 
out from entering at every point. Had she been one whit 
less beautiful, less charming, less tantalizing, he would 
have turned his back and been off, shrugging his shoul- 
ders; but Geraldine had played, and was still playing, 
her part too well. She was never quite cold enough to 
drive him from her. She never was gentler than when 
she was loveliest and most sought after. And, at times, 
now and again it had so happened that when with velvet 
hand she had dealt the little stab, the wound which had 
been meant to rankle and fester presently, and had seen 
him turn from her to bite his lip, and flush with mingled 
shame and vexation, her heart had so smote her for the 
light, cruel jest, that she had sought him out, and set to 


152 


A MERE CHILD . 


work to undo what had been done, so humbly and wist- 
fully that for the moment he had almost been happy 
enough to believe anything. 

For he was now in love with Geraldine and knew 
it. 

“ It is because I know that she is as good and true as 
she is beautiful,” he would sigh with regret all unavail- 
ing. “ The woman whom I marry must be unspoiled by 
all the folly and heartlessness of this miserable world of 
fashion. What is it to a man that his wife knows how 
to dress, and dine, and parade herself from house to 
house, if she cares nothing for him, nor her home and 
children, and the things that good women love ? Who 
wants a fashion plate for his daily companion and the 
mother of his little ones ? I am sick of seeing girl after 
girl brought simpering out, and instructed how to dance, 
and chatter, and show off her points, and trot out her ac- 
complishments. One is exactly like another. They all 
dote on country life, on gardening, and riding, and old 
women’s cottages, and the next moment it slips out that 
they are in a dreadful fright lest papa should hurry them 
home before the season is quite over, and that they 
thought it so cruel of him to stop down in the shires so 
long at Easter and Whitsuntide. Not one but would 
exchange a country home with glee for Homburg, or 
Monte Carlo, or Brighton, or Scarborough. But I knew 
once a girl different to that,” Bellenden would say, with 
animation, when with some intimate on whom such revil- 
ings had been vented, “ I knew one child — she is a wo- 
man now — who, if she be not utterly changed, and I do 
not think she is so changed, would make any man, any 
man, any home happy. Pshaw ! She is not for me. I 
should have but a poor chance, even if I meant to go in 
for one, I tell you. And I don’t mean it. But the man 
who wins her and the speaker would here break off 


A MERE CHILD. 153 

abruptly, and his auditor would know what to think with 
tolerable accuracy. 

He would tell the next person he met that Bellenden 
was hit at last, and that the poor fellow was very far gone, 
but would give no hint in what direction. 

Had the speaker been present at Lady Raymond’s 
Thursday dinner-party he would not have needed much 
of a hint. 

Bellenden’s silence, his abstraction, the quick glances 
he cast round from time to time if his fair partner looked 
toward him, or moved toward him, the lingering gaze 
which still hung upon her lips after she had ceased to 
speak — all meant the same thing. He was anxious, puz- 
zled, curious, ill at ease; but he would not have been 
anywhere but where he was for the world. 

The custom of having flat decorations for the dinner- 
table had not obtained at the time we write of, and in 
front of Geraldine and her partner large flowering plants 
formed an effectual screen from the eyes of those oppo- 
site. 

“ I. like a lot of flowers,’’ observed he once ; “ they are 
pretty, aren’t they ? ” 

“Very pretty. But,” amended the beauty, afraid that 
her voluble friend on the other side was about to strike 
in before she could continue, and beginningto be a little 
desirous for one of those encounters of wits which had 
always a certain exhilarating effect upon her, especially 
when they left Bellenden looking blank and perturbed, 
“ but for my own part I love the sweeter-scented flowers. 

These are very showy, very handsome ; but I like ” 

Then she caught his eye and stopped. 

He knew what she liked, and she knew that he was 
thinking he did so. 

“ My grandmother had had our window-boxes filled 
with large ox-eyed daisies before I knew anything about 


154 


A MERE CHILD. 


it,” proceeded Geraldine, going on at all hazards. “ I did 
feel vexed when I first saw them. Oh no ; it is not that 
I dislike daisies, only I wanted to have had mignonette, 
and — and ” 

“Yes. I think I know what. I saw some charming 
window-gardening to-day. The best I have seen yet.” 

“ Have you any boxes yourself ? ” 

“ At my rooms ; oh, yes. Both of my rooms are full 
of the scent to-day. It was delicious just now. I know 

you would have liked it ” Then he, too, stopped, 

warned by her face. 

“Indeed ! May I ask what the scent was ?’’ said Ger- 
aldine lightly. “ I don’t like every scent you know.” 

“ I know.” 

“ Then why should I have liked yours ? What have 
you got in your boxes ? ” 

“ Am I to tell you — truly ? ” said he, in rather a low 
voice. “ Perhaps I had no right to say that ? I meant 
no harm ” 

“ Then — tell me,” and her voice was almost an echo of 
his. She could not help it, she really could not help it, 
she told herself afterward. 

“ They are full of purple heliotrope,” he answered, and 
turned his face away from her. 


A MERE CHILD. 


155 


CHAPTER XIII. 

LADY RAYMOND’S STRAWBERRY TEA. 

“ In town we’ve no use for the skies overhead, 

For when the sun rises then we go to bed ; 

And as to that old-fashioned virgin, the moon, 

She shines out of season like satin in June.” 

Cecil told his mother that she had managed very badly. 

Poor boy, he really had some cause for complaint, for, 
as he did not fail to point out, in spite of the defection 
of Lady Dawlish, Bellenden could still have handed in 
his sister Ethel, while the deserted Mr. Le Masserer 
would have been equally if not still better pleased to 
have had the pretty heiress. 

He did not add that in this case he would have been 
satisfied on his own account, laying all the stress on his 
friend’s having been separated from his sister ; but Lady 
Raymond understood him perfectly, nevertheless. 

The poor woman had not a word to say for herself. 

Of course, she, too, could have seen the better arrange- 
ment had one minute’s time been given her to think 
about it ; but how could she, or how could anyone have 
been expected to take in all the bearings of the case in 
the buzz of a full drawing-room, with the dinner immi- 
nent, and a husband signaling the one thing of importance, 
to which all besides must give way ? 

She had not enjoyed her own dinner, that she knew ; 
and whether the turbot were fresh or stale, or the white- 
bait ill or well done, she had not cared an atom. She 
had only had eyes for two things, Cecil’s unhappy and 
Ethel’s discontented faces; and neither of them ought 
to have cast a stone at her, she was so truly penitent. 


156 


A MERE CHILD. 


Now, Cecil would not have minded one half as much 
had it not been for a certain increase of spirits on Bellen- 
den’s part, visible after the meal. Bellenden, usually 
somewhat grave and distrait of late, had on the recent 
occasion been almost merry after the ladies had gone up- 
stairs, and had shone forth as one of the talkers and en- 
tertainers of the room. Lord Raymond had told his 
wife afterward that Sir Frederick Bellenden had been 
a great success; Mr. Le Masserer had expressed his 
pleasure at meeting him ; they must have him again. 
Where had he disappeared to when the gentlemen came 
up to the drawing-room ? 

He had disappeared, certainly, and — oh, he had gone 
to the foreign reception, had he ? With Cecil ? 

“ No ; Cecil had gone with the Campbells — Bellenden 
by himself. But Lady Raymond did not know, and 
Cecil did not tell her, that the further shadow on the 
young man’s brow after that evening was due to another 
cause besides that of the disarranged dinner-table, namely, 
to what had transpired during the small hours that fol- 
lowed. 

Bellenden had appeared at the embassy soon after he 
and his grandmother and cousin had taken up position 
near the head of the grand staircase. 

They had seen him coming ; and he had felt a flash of 
conviction that by one at least of the party he had been 
expected. Geraldine had expressed no surprise, and 
on his own suggestion of an adjournment to one of the 
rooms — a suggestion which experience had taught him 
to believe would be acceptable under the circumstances 
— she had obstinately held her ground. It was too hot 
to go inside, she had alleged, and the crowd was too 
great, and she was sure granny did better where she was. 

Geraldine’s eyes meanwhile had been following Bellen- 
den slowly making his way up the staircase, as though 


A MERE CHILD. 


157 


impatient of his tardy progress, yet she had not spoken 
his name, nor told her grandmother of his proximity.. 

He had come straight to them directly it had been 
possible. 

Still there had been nothing definite, nothing tangible, 
nothing that a rival could take hold of. Mrs. Campbell 
had received Sir Frederick courteously, but still with 
something of the stately dignity lately assumed in his 
presence, and Geraldine had merely honored him with 
a casual remark or two, such as might have been made 
to any one. There had been no chattering, no flirting, 
no picking up of threads dropped at the dinner-table. 
He would have told himself he was a fool for his uneasi- 
ness, had it not been for what took place presently. 

Bellenden had been with them about a quarter of an 
hour, quietly assuming his place as one of the party in a 
manner he had never done before, when some acquaint- 
ances of the Raymonds had claimed Cecil’s attention, 
and had for some minutes completely diverted it from 
his cousin. He had had to tell them how he came to 
be there, and how his “people” were not there, what 
they were about, where they were to be met, and where 
they were not to be met. He had had to put some ques- 
tions on his own account. The new-comers were great 
folks whom he did not often chance to meet — people 
who seldom frequented fashionable resorts, but who 
would be noted wherever seen ; the sort of acquaint- 
ances, in short, that young Raymond approved of, and 
with whom he would not for the world have cut short 
an interview. 

For full five minutes he had been thus completely en- 
grossed, and when he had looked round at the expiry of 
that period, neither Bellenden nor his cousin had been 
anywhere to be seen. 

“ They have only gone to hear the band,” Mrs. Camp- 


158 


A MERE CHILD. 


bell had said, placidly. “ I told them that I should re- 
main here, and that you would take care of me.” 

How long the strains of the band had been heard 
thereafter he could not have told. It had seemed ages, 
and must really have been during a considerable length 
of time, since directly Geraldine had reappeared it had 
been time to go. 

Geraldine had seemed hurried and apologetic, and 
there had been a good deal said about the crowds, and 
the number of rooms, and the difficulty of making way 
through them ; but all the talking had been done by her. 

Bellenden had said nothing, but had stood by with a 
sort of smile on his face, which it had not cheered poor 
Cecil’s heart to see. 

He had, indeed, left all the excuses and explanations 
to his fair companion ; but there had been that in his 
air which had said, as plainly as words could have done, 
that she was herself his excuse, and one sufficient for him 
or for any man. No wonder the son spoke sharply and 
sulkily to the parent who had, as it were, opened the 
Avay to so much; for that Bellenden had, by some means 
or other, now contrived to break down the barrier which 
had existed for so long between him and his quondam 
“ little friend,” and which had, up to the present, seemed 
so impregnable, was only too obvious. 

Geraldine herself was bitterly indignant with herself 
during the summer morn which had set in ere the party 
quitted the festive halls, and which, gathering strength 
and glory, was blazing forth in its full tide of light and 
life as the weary girl sought in vain the slumber that had 
fled her pillow. She wondered what she had been think- 
ing of, dreaming of. She had gone on so well until 
now. Never until this evening had she really faltered ; 
scarcely ever had she been tempted to falter. She had, 
indeed, been aware of being ever more and more ready 


A MERE CHILD. 


159 


to meet Bellenden, more and more constantly on the 
lookout for him — but what of that ? He had had noth- 
ing from her but gay, mocking words, and sharp, two- 
edged jests. Only once or twice, only when she had 
been really too unkind, too barefaced, had she wheeled 
about and murmured the gentle after-word and cast the 
soft glance which had undone the rest. But to-night ? 
To-night there had been nothing to undo. She had 
tried to be sarcastic, flippant, and unfeeling, and had 
failed, and had failed utterly. For the future she must 
beware. 

And there was yet something further. 

Bellenden had offered a box at the opera, and she had 
almost accepted it. 

How could she now escape the consequences of such 
imprudence ? 

“ The only thing will be to make granny refuse,” she 
ruminated, tossing hither and thither on her fretful, fe- 
verish couch ; “Granny must just say we have not an 
evening, or that the weather is too hot for theatres. I 
can show her that I do not care to go, and that will be 
enough to make her not care. Then I shall tell Sir 
Frederick what she says.” 

But when it came to telling Sir Frederick, the message 
somehow took another form. Granny was very much 
obliged, and would like immensely to go, and either 
Tuesday or Wednesday would suit her, as they had no 
engagements for those evenings. 

Now, how was this ? Let us hearken to the preceding 
dialogue, and judge to whom the apparent inconsistency 
is due. 

Granny. — “ Well, my dear, Sir Frederick is very kind, 
and I dare say we shall enjoy it.” 

Geraldine. — “ It is the one opera that I have not seen, 
which I should really care to see.” 


1 60 A MERE CHILD. 

Granny. — “ I am told it is very good.” 

Geraldine. — “ The Raymond girls say it is beautiful. 
Even Uncle Raymond has been to it.” 

Granny. — “ Well, what night shall we fix ?” 

Geraldine. — “ Why, if you really think of going ” 

Granny. — “ My dear, I am ready to go or not, as you 
decide. I thought you would certainly wish to go ” 

Geraldine. — “ Ye-es.” 

Granny. — “ Do you not wish it ? Of course, if you do 
not ” 

Geraldine. — “ Oh, but I — I — I — I do.” 

Granny, smiling. — “ Then let us say Tuesday or Wed- 
nesday; for we ought to give him a choice of days, as he 
may not be able to get a box for the first.” 

So now we know as much about the matter, or very 
nearly as much, as Geraldine did herself. She had been 
equipped for her morning ride, whip and glove in hand, 
ere she had broached the subject, and there had been no 
time for discussion, not for mentioning the idea to Cecil, 
who was in waiting outside ; more than this, an opportu- 
nity for conveying the decision to Bellenden unheard 
had to be watched for ; and altogether, it almost seemed 
as if she were engaged in something contraband. 

Bellenden was in the Row that morning ; and it 
seemed to young Raymond that the confidence of the 
previous night had not deserted him. He was riding, 
moreover, which he had not once before done, so that he 
could now join company with the cousins if he chose — 
and he did choose. He put his horse alongside of theirs 
as a matter of course, and there was nothing to be said. 

Presently Geraldine murmured something to him 
aside. She bent over her saddle to do so, affecting to 
steady a fidget on the part of her horse ; but it could 
scarcely have had anything to do with “ Sir Lancelot’s ” 
restlessness which brought the instantaneous look of 


A MERE CHILD. 


161 


pleasure into her companions face as she listened. 
What could it have been ? 

Bellenden looked, indeed, as he felt, greatly pleased, 
“ We can take a fourth, you know,” he observed, “ Would 
one of your cousins like to come ?” 

“ They have been already, all except Cecil ” here 

Geraldine stopped suddenly. What was she saying ? 
She did not want Cecil asked, would have been sadly put 
out had he been so, and here she was, as it were hinting 
for an invitation for him. So it was taken, evidently. 

“ Shall I ask him ?” said Bellenden, after a moment’s 
pause. 

No answer. He glanced at her, saw that he should 
have none, and was more contented than ever. 

In truth, it had been the merest slip of the tongue on 
Geraldine’s part, the bald statement of a fact, since she was 
already beginning to wish that the ring of the door-bell 
would not quite so frequently mean young Raymond’s 
voice in the hall and step upon the stair, and that it was 
not to be taken so completely for granted that he was to 
be of the party whenever anything was arranged between 
her and Ethel and Alicia. They could not now go to 
concert, nor a flower-show, nor a picture-gallery — they 
could scarcely walk, shop, or drive but what the brother 
would be met somewhere, even if he had not started 
with the rest at the outset. To be sure, if he had been 
now, as before, the merely attentive cousin and useful 
companion, his company might still have been welcome ; 
but alack ! a girl’s unerring instinct had told her of late 
that the time for this had gone past. 

Those constant visits, those uneasy looks, those close 
and frequent cross-examinations, fitful days of moody 
depression succeeded by bursts of light-heartedness and 
relief — all carried their own tale. 

To ask him now to make a fourth as Bellenden’s guest ? 


A MERE CHILD. 


162 

And for herself, to have to sit by Bellenden’s side, con- 
scious of those jealous, watchful eyes following every 
movement, those sharp ears on the catch for every word ? 
She could not do it. 

“ Gently — gently, Sir Lancelot.” 

“Your horse is fidgeting for a canter, Miss Campbell.” 

And off they all went, and not another word was 
said about the opera; but the affair came off neverthe- 
less. 

The strawberry tea brought no improvement in mat- 
ters, in so far as its givers were concerned. 

Geraldine and her grandmother arrived late, and stayed 
downstairs eating ices and drinking coffee, until after the 
recital had begun, Mrs. Campbell considering that she 
might please herself and take any liberties she chose in 
her daughter’s house ; and, accordingly, when at length 
the two came upstairs, the large room was full to the 
brim, and not a chair to be had — upon seeing which, 
granny protested that she was glad it was so, for she pre- 
ferred remaining in the cooler atmosphere of the landing 
outside, to any amount of fine recitation in a panting, 
breathless, over-crowded drawing-room. 

Geraldine was of the same opinion ; she had been 
surfeited with amusement of late, and the sounds from 
within excited no curiosity nor desire for more in her 
bosom. 

Presently she drew her chaperon out upon the balcony, 
cool and tempting under its shady awning, and banked 
in with flowers ; and Cecil who, as ill-luck would have it, 
had got wedged in at the very far end of the largest room, 
close by the platform upon which he had to introduce 
the reciter, and from whence subsequent escape had been 
impossible, could just perceive the wreath of rosebuds for 
which he had been looking, flit past in the far distance, 
hopelessly out of reach. 


A MERE CHILD. 163 

He must now perforce wait for the half-hour’s interval 
ere anything could be done. 

Never had speaker been so wearisome; never had per- 
formance seemed of such unending length ! 

Fans were fluttering, lace scarfs were being loosened, 
positions were being changed, yawns were being stifled, 
and it became evident that every one was hot, and tired, 
and longing to move, and bored to death, and the luck- 
less author of the mischief knew that he had only himself 
to thank for the general ennui. He had selected a few 
long pieces, instead of a greater number of short ones, 
his idea being that once by Geraldine’s side, he should 
not be required to move so often, and do his part as host. 
He had told his cousin to be early, and fancied she had 
promised to be so — in which case she, too, would have 
been up beside the little platform, and close to the large 
window where he had kept places vacant as long as he 
could. He had known she would like the air, and she 
might, he thought, have trusted him to see she had it. 

He was now caught in his own trap. 

The rosebuds vanished, whither he could not follow; 
and then, when the long looked-for interval did at last 
come, and starting from his seat, he had managed to 
struggle down the room a little way — being almost rude 
to one and another in his determination not to be de- 
tained, his mother — his mother again ! — caught him, and 
all unwittingly frustrated every advance by presenting a 
lady of consequence, for whom his arm to the tea-room 
was required. 

What a place of torment was that warm, whizzing, 
buzzing tea-room to him. 

Geraldine was not there, as he had faintly hoped she 
might be; but innumerable other ladies were, and as all, 
or nearly all, of them were known to him, and as men 
were few, it followed that he had to wait on one and an- 


A MERE CHILD. 


164 

other, procure tea for this fair, coffee for that, and carry 
cakes and butter-rolls and strawberries about, till his very 
soul sickened within him. 

In the fulness of her satisfaction at the time when the 
tea-party had been in embryo, his mother had ordered 
with so liberal a hand that no fewer than three kinds of 
cool, bubbling, delicious cream — iced, clotted, and plain 
— were now offered with strawberries, to be accepted 
according to taste ; and this choice, necessitating delay 
and compliment, was as the last straw on the camel’s 
back to the unfortunate lover. 

He thought he should never have done, never get up- 
stairs again. As fast as he had satisfied some, others 
appeared ; and his own dame was not to be persuaded in 
to impatience to reascend. No ; she thanked him, but 
she was quite willing to wait a little while where she was. 
She had found some friends to talk to. Would he come 
for her presently ? 

Still no Geraldine. He had just made up his mind to 
rush upstairs and bring down his cousin, regardless of 
obstructions, when he was beckoned up by his rightful 
charge, and the chance passed, since, when, he had depos- 
ited her above upon a sofa, the room had nearly filled 
again, and the second part of the programme was about 
to begin. 

He would not be caught again, he vowed ; and told 
himself he knew better than to be found inside the door- 
way; so flew back to the landing, and hovered there, 
peering this way and that, hanging over the banisters, 
scanning the hall below, making short discursive flights 
into the balcony, but never once taking a real look among 
the seated audience until the whole thing was over, and 
they, too, had risen. 

And then, just as he was about to ask his mother and 
his sister whether the vision of the rosebud wreath had 


A MERE CHILD. 


165 

been a delusion on his part, and Geraldine had never 
really been near the place at all, whom should he see 
but her fair self coming down from the far, far end of 
the room, from behind the platform indeed, where young 
madam had ensconced herself during all the latter part 
of the entertainment, having seen her cousin safely pass 
downstairs in the interval, and feeling secure that he 
would re-enter the great room on his return. 

She had been disporting herself on the balcony, Bel- 
lenden with her, during the early portion of the after- 
noon, and we may be sure he had not left her afterward. 

They had both enjoyed the recital, and had listened 
to it with a politeness born of contentment with their 
own situation and its surroundings. Granny had been 
with them, well enough pleased, too ; granny was begin- 
ning to have her own ideas about Sir Frederick, and to 
think that his punishment had perhaps lasted sufficiently 
long; and so no one had helped poor Cecil, and his 
mother, who ought to have been his chief support, had 
done him an actual injury. 

“ A great success, Charlotte,” quoth the old lady, 
blithely, to her daughter, as she now passed out ; “ a 
very pleasant party. If I had your rooms I should have 
liked to try something of the kind myself. But though 
our little house suits me admirably, it is not intended 
for entertaining. Another year, perhaps, we may be ac- 
commodated a little more commodiously.” 

“ I had all three kinds of cream at once, Cecil,” whis- 
pered Geraldine, as if he were sure to laugh and be de- 
lighted ; “ I had, indeed ; and they were — or rather it 
was so good. And such strawberries ! It was the straw- 
berries that kept granny and me downstairs ; we could 
not tear ourselves away from the strawberries, could we, 
granny ! ” 

“ They were delicious, certainly,” assented granny. 


A MERE CHILD. 


1 66 

“ Charlotte, you must tell me your greengrocer, or did 
these come from your own garden ? ” for they were now 
in a family group, and could ask family questions. 

“ No, the strawberries had not come from their garden 
— there were none so fine in their garden ; but these had 
been supplied by Lady Raymond’s own particular mar- 
ket-woman — her market-woman, with whom she had 
dealt for years and years, and who had never disappointed 
her, and might be depended upon for anything she under- 
took. Before she had finished a gratified eulogy, Cecil 
saw Geraldine furtively twitching his grandmother’s 
sleeve to go. 

“You are in a great hurry,” said he, moodily. 

“ Because we are late. I am not in a hurry to go, but 
in a hurry to be gone. Therein lies the difference. If 
we are not gone within a few minutes we shall have to 
scamper through all the evening afterward, and my poor 
dear does not like to scamper.” 

One or two things in the little speech had a strange 
flavor of Inchmarew in his ears as he listened. He had 
never, for one thing, heard granny called his cousin’s 
“ poor dear ” before, in London. He had not seen her 
coaxed and hustled in that childish fashion of late. Ger- 
aldine herself, moreover, looked saucier, brisker, more 
mischievous and frolicsome than at any time since she 
had presented herself to the world as a grown young 
lady. He fancied she gave a little skip as she ran down- 
stairs to the carriage. Where were they going that even- 
ing ? he wondered. He had not known of anything 
being “ on.” Was it too late to ask ? 

He was still undecided when the carriage rolled away ; 
and perhaps it was as well, for he might not have been 
invited to join the party, and, whether he had or not, he 
would have disapproved of it. 

The ladies were going to pass an out-of-door evening in 


A MERE CHILD. 


1 67 


the illuminated gardens, then growing to be the novelty- 
most talked about, and a night for which had often been 
planned, but some other amusement had as invariably 
intervened. Geraldine had actually not been yet, in 
consequence ; and now, on Bellenden’s suggesting that 
he could procure for her and Mrs. Campbell admission 
to the lighting-tower if they would permit him to ac- 
company them, who could have -refused so good an offer ? 
From the electric lighting-tower, he assured them, in- 
comparably the best view of the scene was to be obtained ; 
and the mass of people, the thousands of colored lights, 
and the silvery fountains, with their ever-changing hues 
and tints flying up into the dark sky overhead — the 
whole was a sight worth seeing. For his part, he liked 
the place, there was so much to be seen, and so many 
curious things to be investigated. He liked the aqua- 
rium — had they really never seen a large aquarium, and 
Geraldine so fond of sea-creatures ? He must take her, 
at least, to look at the anemones. The anemones were 
finer than any he had seen anywhere. 

And with the last topic had come a certain hesitation, 
and both had known of what the other was thinking. 

But it had all ended well. He had been bidden to 
dine in Mount Street at an early hour, and the carriage 
had been ordered to be at the door for the three to go to 
the gardens at soon after eight o’clock. It was the re- 
membrance of this early dinner which had set Geraldine 
to twitching her grandmother’s sleeve at the Raymonds. 

The night was balmy, but the great heat of the day 
had passed. 

“ How delightful is this driving about in open car- 
riages in the evenings ! ” exclaimed Geraldine, bounding 
up the step. “ We never drive after dinner in Scotland. 
I wonder why ? ” 

“ The evenings are seldom warm enough,” replied Bel- 


A MERE CHILD. 


168 

lenden, standing by the door, for granny had not yet come 
out. “You have not many evenings like this at Inch- 
marew.” 

“ But they are warm enough for boating — or, at least, 
we go, whether it is warm or not,” said she, laughing. 

“ Not clad like this,” and he glanced at the soft white 
cambric donned for her aunt’s party, and considered suit- 
able to end the day in, the while in his mind’s eye he 
beheld the roughest, warmest, thickest of serge frocks, 
over which even a double-folded plaid had not been un- 
welcome. “ Don’t you remember,” he added, and as he 
spoke he looked her fully and boldly in the face, “ don’t 
you remember how cold it grew, and how you shivered 
and trembled that night ? ” 

Granny came out ere he had an answer. 

Granny was much pleased with her entertainment. 
The scene altogether was as novel to her as to Geraldine, 
for there had been nothing of the kind in her young days, 
and she looked, and wondered, and admired, and trotted 
hither and thither, and gave herself up so entirely to the 
enjoyment of the evening, that she, too, once more be- 
came the granny of Inchmarew, not the stately dame 
Bellenden had found in Mount Street. 

After descending from the tower, the three proceeded 
to wander about, sometimes looking at this object, some- 
times at that, occasionally listening to the musicians, 
now taking a seat, now walking to and fro — all was pleas- 
ant, and each one was pleased. 

“ But we must really go some time,” cried the old lady 
at last. “ We have been beguiled into staying much 
later than I had intended, and our poor coachman will 
have wondered what can possibly have happened to us. 
I had been growing a little fidgety before you came back 

just now ” from which it may be inferred that the 

chaperon had more than once been left for a few minutes 


A MERE CHILD. 


169 

to rest herself, while the others had just stepped round 
the corner to see something absolutely imperative to be 
seen— “ we must lose no time now,” she said at last. 
“ Geraldine, your shawl. It is growing quite cold. I 
have put on mine some time ago. Now,” and she set 
off briskly, and either did not or would not notice that 
it was Bellenden who slowly drew the shawl round her 
charge, the while he bent his head to murmur something 
which told her that he was thinking of another darkened 
sky and deepening chill, when the self-same service had 
been turned into a close caress. 

He parted from them at their carriage door, saying he 
would walk home. 

He wished to be alone, and felt that Geraldine did 
also. 

“ She has won me, and I think I have won her,” he 
told himself.' “ She is a noble creature, and I deserved, 
richly deserved, that I should be despised for my conduct 
toward her. But now we are reconciled — now I may say 
what I choose, make any allusions I choose. How quick, 
how apprehensive she is ! How readily she guesses my 
meaning and interprets every sign ! She must know all. 
She must understand me. I have been plain enough. 
I have said everything but the one thing, and that I shall 
not linger over now. And to think that that little girl I 
left behind on the Highland loch was to be my fate after 
all ! ” 

Was he, or was he not, getting on a little too fast ? 


170 


A MERE CHILD. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

CECIL AT THE REGATTA. 

“ In London the spirits are cheerful and light, 

All places are gay and all faces are bright ; 

We’ve ever new joys, and revived by each whim, 

Each day on a new tide of pleasure we swim.” 

Whereby had the wondrous change been wrought ? 

It had come about of itself ; it had been the result of 
no effort, of no ingenuity, no ability. 

Bellenden had simply borne his punishment in pa- 
tience, and after the first, had neither resented, nor dis- 
dained it, and in this had lain his strength. What wo- 
man can long resist the meek endurance of her wrath ? 

And thereupon the old charm had begun to work. 
Perhaps neither quite knew when it had so begun — cer- 
tainly Geraldine did not, and was fain to continue in ig- 
norance ; but after that evening in the gardens, nay, even 
after the other spent in the hot and crowded theatre, she 
could no longer conceal from herself that it was there. 

She would find herself looking, listening, responding 
as of yore. Anon she would awake with a start, wild 
with herself and with him — all too late. What was to 
be done ? The season was yet at its height. 

“ Henley is the next thing,” said Lady Raymond. 
She was a person of more exact and circumscribed opin- 
ions than her mother, and she had not altogether ap- 
proved of several amusements to which Geraldine had 
been taken ; but Henley Regatta was the one festival of 
the year of which she was wont to partake with unquali- 
fied satisfaction. Her sister Maria, who, it will be re- 
membered, was the other aunt occasionally referred to at 


A MERE CHILD . 


171 

Inchmarew, had now issued her customary invitation to 
stop at The Lawn, go down the river in boats, lunch on 
the bank, and enjoy all the pleasures of the regatta with 
none of its toils. Maria had hoped that her mother and 
niece would be this year of the party also, and in her let- 
ter instructed Charlotte to concert with them as to pre- 
liminaries. 

“ You have got your invitation, I know,” said her lady- 
ship, coming in early one morning, “ and I am so glad 
that Geraldine will have the treat. I consider Henley 
Regatta quite the prettiest of the summer sights.” 

Whereupon granny coughed and looked about her, but 
made no answer. 

“You mean to go, of course?” demanded Lady Ray- 
mond, somewhat imperiously. 

“ I — we have not quite made up our minds, my dear.” 

The truth was that Cecil was the difficulty. Gerald- 
ine did not, it is true, put into words the burden which 
was daily pressing upon her in the shape of Cecil, saying 
to herself that her grandmother saw nothing, and that 
she would not be so selfish as to disturb her poor dear’s 
serenity and peace of mind ; but granny had in reality 
been carefully on the alert, watching at every turn for 
what might next befall, and ready to catch her cue in a 
moment of time, at any emergency. She also thought 
it best to say as little as need be, and only to do nothing 
and accept nothing without her granddaughter’s sanc- 
tion. 

Cecil had gone with the two to Ascot, and to Hurling- 
ham, and had spoilt both days; was he now to spoil 
Henley also ? 

Geraldine had announced her intention of going no 
more to either of the former resorts. Ascot, she said, 
had been very pretty, very bright, very gay, the horses 
themselves had been beautiful, and the racing delightful ; 


172 


A MERE CHILD. 


but she had not liked it as a zvhole — and there had been 
a quick shake of the little resolute head, and a setting of 
the stern young lip, which might, after all, have had no 
reference to her cousin. But, in regard to Hurlingham, 
he had certainly been the chief offence. There she had 
seen nothing but a harmless polo match, and had drunk 
tea on the lawn, and dined later' on in the club-house, 
and certainly whatever evil had been present, it had not 
presented itself to her innocent eyes — so it was, it must 
have been Cecil’s presence on that occasion which had 
caused the affair to find so little favor in her sight. 

“It was altogether stale,” she told Bellenden, after- 
ward. 

“ Stale ! ” exclaimed he in surprise. “ I did not know 
— I fancied you had never been there before.” 

“ Neither I had. And,” said Geraldine, impetuously, 
“ I never wish to go there again.” 

“Your cousin must have been disappointed,” observed 
he. “ He meant to please you, I know.” He had not 
himself been of the party, and knew very well why. 

“ It was stupid ! ” cried the spoilt child, “ stupid. We 
felt so foolish, granny and I, and Cecil, sitting up there 
with no one to talk to and no reason why we might not 
as well have been at home. If Cecil had invited a num- 
ber of nice people ” 

“ Myself, for instance.” 

Geraldine laughed. 

“ Do say it,” continued he, only half in jest, “because, 
you see, I was so terribly anxious to go, and so greatly 
disappointed that I was not asked.” 

Now there was no chance of his being asked to Aunt 
Maria’s Henley party, and that in itself might have taken 
the edge off somebody’s pleasure; but if to that were to 
be added Cecil Raymond’s uninterrupted companionship 
for two whole days, the outlook might be regarded as 


A MERE CHILD. 


1 73 


black indeed. In consequence came granny’s cough when 
her daughter’s pressing tone seemed to compel an an- 
swer “ Yea” or “ Nay” — she read consternation on the 
brow of her fair barometer. 

“You will go, of course,” proceeded Lady Raymond, 
however, “ I know you are disengaged, and Maria is 
counting upon you. She told me long ago that she had 
not worried you with invitations before, as she had 
reckoned on you for the regatta. We shall be a family 
party — so pleasant. The Lawn always looks its best at 
regatta time, and a few days in the country will do us all 
good.” 

“ Geraldine and I — yes — I think we can go; but really 
we must talk it over together first,” protested granny, 
doing as well as could have been expected of her. “ You 
see you are our first intimation of the news, for though 
we had got the letter, I had really hardly looked at it,” 
. nervously turning the envelope backwards and forwards 
in her hand. “ We will endeavor to go, but ” 

“ Oh, you must really make a push for it. All along 
it has been understood that Geraldine was to see Henley; 
and I can assure you both that, as a sight, it is in its way 
unique. My girls enjoy it of all things. The row down 
the river — for The Lawn is three miles above Henley — 
the crowds of boats, the music, the brightness, the gayety 
over all,” cried Lady Raymond, with renewed animation, 
“ and Maria really exerts herself to get the right people 
together; I have never met any but pleasant people there. 
The girls will tell you the same. She invited a consid- 
erable number to luncheon, in addition to those stop- 
ping in the house. I used to take Ethel and Alicia when 
they were still in the school-room — I felt so sure of their 
only meeting the right sort of people. That, and the 
Eton and Harrow match, were the only galas we per- 
mitted them, as young girls.” 


174 


A MERE CHILD . 


“ Oh, you must come to the regatta,” Ethel was saying 
aside to Geraldine. “It is really good fun, and we 
should all be so disappointed if you do not. I doubt if 
Aunt Maria would ever forgive it. Tell granny she must 
g°-” 

Which Geraldine did with a sigh. She saw there was 
no help for it, since to have stood out would have been 
to raise a family commotion — of all things to be avoided 
at the present crisis ; and now all that remained to be 
done was to try and struggle through as well and as 
bravely as she could. 

“ You are going to Henley ? ’’ said Bellenden, when he 
heard of it. “ Yes, Henley might be very good fun if 
you are with the right sort of people,” he added, uncon- 
sciously plagiarizing Lady Raymond in his choice of 
ideas. “ Who are you to be with ? ” 

When he heard of whom the party were to consist, and 
that it was to be confined to the Raymonds and the St. 
Georges, his face changed. 

“ I don’t know Mrs. St. George,” he said, “ but I shall 
see you, I dare say, somehow. I shall go down for the 
day. It is a miserable way of doing it, but I have no 
other. I am too late to get a room anywhere now.” 

“ You always go, then ? ” 

“Never went before in my life.” 

She dared not risk another question. 

For Geraldine, as we have already hinted, knew that 
she daily drew nearer and nearer the edge of a preci- 
pice. 

So far, she had prevented the words being spoken which 
she had felt were trembling more than once upon the lips 
hard by, and had just managed to turn aside more than 
one moment instinct with opportunity, so that she had 
got as far as another week on, since the night in the gar- 
dens, without any advance having been made ; but she 


A MERE CHILD. 1 75 

had learned more and more to distrust herself, and to 
watch the other one. 

Was Bellenden but toying with her young heart a 
second time f She did not think so — but how was she 
to be sure ? What if those meaning glances, those dulcet 
undertones, the pains he took to be near her, the gloom 
on his brow when parted from her, were all but the cun- 
ning of a master-hand playing against its delusive, magic 
music. 

She had thought he had loved her once — not loved like 
this, of course — but still had granted her a place in his 
affections and memory which she had been proved never 
to have possessed ; and as she had refused to doubt him 
then, how was she now to trust herself to judge him 
aright ? 

Well did she recollect the sudden blaze of childish fury 
which had risen within her breast when Cecil, gayly taunt- 
ing, had whispered about knights who had loved and 
rode away, ere his own resentment had been awakened 
by the prediction having been vefified. Cecil had been 
right, and she had been wrong — once. Who was to say 
which would be the truer prophet now ? 

Of one thing, however, Geraldine was clear ; she very 
earnestly desired that Cecil Raymond should not be 
aware of how far Bellenden had already gone, how often 
the two had met, and to what extent they had advanced 
in intimacy. She never mentioned to her cousin Sir 
Frederick’s name. She looked as unconscious as she 
could if he were casually referred to by others. And if 
she knew he were to be in any place at any hour on the 
watch for her and ready to join her, she would sooner 
have given up the meeting altogether than have had on 
her other side the playmate of her youth. 

With a heavy heart she now prepared for the two 
days’ visit at Aunt Maria’s. She knew how it would be 


176 


A MERE CHILD. 


when she got there. She could already hear her two 
aunts’ whisperings, and mark the confidences inter- 
changed and the plan of the campaign drawn up. For 
Mrs. St. George, having no children of her own, and 
being well affected toward her nieces and nephews in 
general, and Cecil Raymond in particular, would be only 
too much overjoyed at being called in to assist him at 
this all-important juncture. 

Cecil would be paired off with his cousin at the dinner- 
table, in the boat’ at the luncheon party, throughout the 
entire proceedings. She could prophetically behold him 
carrying her shawl and fetching her parasol, waiting for 
her if she were behind hand, and waiting for no one else 
if she were in front. She knew for what purpose he had 
bought a white cotton cover for his umbrella, and almost 
felt its shade before she had ever seen it unfurled. 

All proved correct — only too correct. It was Cecil 
here and Cecil there, just as had been anticipated. Cecil 
was directed to look after the Mount Street luggage 
even at the railway station, and took their tickets and 
found their compartment subsequently. He it was who 
sat on the box-seat of his aunt’s carnage, looking down 
backward to point out this view and that as they whirled 
along the dusty lanes, and his hand was outstretched to 
help them to alight ere any other assistance could be 
offered. 

Then the net was drawn still closer. 

Cecil was told to show the cousin who was a stranger 
the beauties of the shady garden, with its cool retreats 
and rustling water-banks. Cecil had to gather for her 
the evening buttonhole from his aunt’s flower-beds. And ' 
Cecil was advised. to take her out in the little boat that 
only held two, later on in the evening. 

That she declined, but escape from the rest had been 
impossible. 


A MERE CHILD. 


177 


The next morning was but a repetition of the same. 
She found her cousin in the seat beside her at the 
breakfast-table, and he followed her out into the veranda 
directly the meal was over. 

Before the very beginning of the fray she was sick to 
death of it, of him, and of everyone. 

The lovely landscape around her had no beauty in her 
eyes. The blue, glittering river, winding its way between 
its willowy bands, with its usual repose broken by the 
thousands of rainbow-tinted holiday makers, all plying 
oar and sail for the same point — she scarce cared to look 
upon it. The warm hay-fields, merry with haymakers, 
with their background of solemn foliage, all one milky, 
gray-green hue in the July sunshine — she beheld the fair 
scene as though it were a bugbear. 

Silent and sullen she sat, scarce lifting her gaze from 
the water at her side, her large sunshade screening her 
from the observation of the rest, her thoughts else- 
where. 

Cecil was rowing, and looking his best in his nice new 
flannels. He was not altogether happy, poor fellow ; 
he had a gnawing sense of being ungraciously met and 
repelled at every turn that day ; and as until now he 
had never experienced any actual rebuffs, and had never 
been able to ascertain positively that his cousin had even 
wilfully avoided him— since excuse and explanation had 
always been so glib upon her tongue — the bed of roses 
he had proposed for himself in Aunt Maria’s vine-covered 
cottage was like to prove but a thorny couch. 

Somehow he had reckoned on Geraldine’s being all 
his own if he could once detach her from Bellenden. It 
had seemed to him that to Bellenden’s baneful influence 
only was due his cousin’s variable moods and slippery 
ways of late. She had been forever eluding him — some- 
times on one account, sometimes on another — he could 


12 


i;8 


A MERE CHILD. 


not catch her tripping, but it had been so, as a fact, to 
whatever cause due. 

He thought, nay he felt sure, that Bellenden was at 
the bottom of it. Bellenden and he were now almost 
openly antagonistic ; had been for the past fortnight ; 
and Geraldine, while affecting to perceive nothing, was, 
he could not but think, covertly on Bellenden’s side. 

But if once he could undermine Bellenden’s influence, 
and counteract the impression which he had apparently 
made afresh, he thought he could soon reinstate himself 
with his cousin. That Sir Frederick was not seriously 
in earnest, that he had no aim beyond standing well 
with one of the reigning beauties of the season and b/ i *-~ 
seen in her train by those who chronicle such records, . ^ 
must do young Raymond the justice to say was his hon- 
est and deliberate conviction. His own feeling for Ger- 
aldine was of the calmest and steadiest. He had always 
been fond of her — as a child he had seen her open to im- 
provement, and he saw her open to improvement now ; 
but he admired and was attracted, and the fact that the 
match would be one to please his parents and sisters did 
not in any wise detract from its merits in his eyes, as 
such facts had been known to do. 

But Bellenden had in all probability no idea of a 
match at all. Bellenden was not a marrying man. He 
had a manner; it meant nothing. He had employed it 
with Ethel, and it had misled her and her mother. He 
was now making free with Geraldine, and she, foolish 
child, was once again falling into the snare. Was it for 
him to stand by and see his dear, sweet, lovable cousin 
thus trifled with ? Assuredly not. 


A MERE CHILD . 


179 


CHAPTER XV. 

“ YOU ARE A PATIENT MAN, SIR FREDERICK.” 

<l I know love’s a devil, too subtle to spy, 

That shoots through the soul from the beam of an eye ; 

But in London those devils so quickly fly about, 

That a new devil still drives an old devil out.” 

If Geraldine had only known what was passing in the 
young man’s breast ! 

She fancied, as people have done, and will do to the 

> of time, that whatever might be her own doubts 

j if a* 0 

and 'fears, emotions and agitations, they were safely hid- 
den in the innermost recesses of her heart, secure from 
everyone’s ken but her own. It was her one comfort 
that no one — not even her poor dear — dreamed of those 
nightly musings, and the daily struggle ; and that Cecil, 
Cecil of all people, Cecil, to whom she had so long been, 
after her manner, subject, of whose opinion she still had 
a cold dread, and for whom she still entertained a cer- 
tain uneasy respect, that Cecil should have made the tu- 
rn ultuous upheaval of her soul the subject for his calm, dis- 
passionate dissection, would have been sufficient to — let us 
see what it did do when the frightful truth burst upon her. 

All that day Cecil was on the watch. 

His hand was the one on which she had to depend for 
support, as she stepped ashore- upon the green bank, so 
well known at Henley, where the favored few are per- 
mitted to excite the envy of the multitude, where they 
can feast spaciously and luxuriously, in the long, cool grass 
beneath the shade, unencumbered by the vulgar, and 
where they can at ease promenade presently, unjostled 
by the clamorous. 

Cecil was his cousin’s escort toward the chosen spot 


i8o 


A MERE CHILD. 


where Aunt Maria’s well-trained servants had already al- 
most completed their tempting arrangements ; where the 
lamb and chicken, and lobster and salad, the salmon, 
and cucumber, the pie and the pdtd were repeated up 
and down the snowy tablecloth, and where the cham- 
pagne bottles were up to their necks in the ice-pails be- 
hind the tree. 

Geraldine’s place was selected in the shadiest corner, 
behind which there was a niche, not yet to be filled up, 
but into which some one would by and by insert him- 
self ; some one who was so openly and palpably her 
cavalier for the nonce that none of the young men of 
the party durst so much as offer her a piece of bread, 
although there was more than one present who would 
fain have done so. 

Did she want to go on the river, luncheon being over ? 
Cecil’s own little cushioned boat was lying ready, and 
he would be too proud to take her. 

No ? Would she prefer the Guards’ enclosure? The 
“ Isthmian ’’ enclosure ? The Hungarians were playing 
in the latter ; but either enclosure was open to her, as 
Cecil has passes for both. 

What was she to say ? Any enclosure that enclosed 
her, and excluded him ? Hardly. 

Would she then see the next race rowed ? If so, he 
would show her the right place, the point from which a 
fine open view, unencumbered by house-boats, might be 
obtained. 

Oh, she was too tired to walk. 

Would she take a seat ? There were seats in abun- 
dance among the trees ; and to be sure there was a glare 
on the river, it would be cooler and pleasanter to get 
among the trees — even as he spoke she had turned away 
from him with an exclamation. She had fancied she 
saw Bellenden. 


A MERE CHILD. 


Previously, no idea of the extent and magnitude of 
the festival had entered into her mind, and she had sup- 
posed that, once there, she would have had no difficulty 
in being found by any one minded to find her. A re- 
gatta was not a race-course, she had argued ; and she 
had been at regattas before — having witnessed a few 
dull yatchts cruising about in the Firth of Clyde, and 
stood among a few hundred spectators to see them come 
in — (which they never did) ; but of the great regatta of 
the south, of the crowd, the din, the confusion and strife, 
the Babel of tongues, the difficulty of movement, and 
the almost impossibility of meeting without previous 
appointment, she had had no sort of conception, while 
Bellenden had been equally ignorant. Had he ever 
been at Henley Regatta before he would have known, 
indeed, to confine his search within certain limits ; but he 
had not learned his lesson and had somehow picked up 
a vague impression that the ladies’ quarter was near the 
bridge, on a large and thronged platform, and finding 
none of the Raymonds there had somewhat disconcerted 
him. He had, however, proceeded with his search, 
scoured the water, assailed the enclosure, peered over 
the decks of house-boats, and been everywhere and 
looked everywhere but in the one place where his dove 
had hid herself, and in consequence he had of course 
searched and scoured in vain. 

Finally he had given it up, and gone home in disgust, 
but meaning to have compensation in Mount Street 
presently. 

Geraldine had evidently been kept from him by the 
Raymonds and St. Georges in collusion ; either she had 
not been at the regatta at all, or she had been kept out 
of sight on purpose; in either of which cases there 
would be no sort of use in his going down again on the 
second day. The train had been a purgatory, the rush 


i 82 


A MERE CHILD. 


at the ticket office and the scramble for a seat something 
to shudder at, the whole affair a noisy, vulgar, unremu- 
nerative day. He had not seen a thing, he had scarcely 
met a person he knew, he had never endured four hours 
of greater martyrdom. 

And, after all, very little would have been obtained, 
even if he had found Geraldine in her present company. 
The Raymonds were obviously holding her fast for the 
son and heir, and she was for the time unattainable. It 
would have been but a word, or at most a brief half-hour 
by her side — and that probably with Cecil, or some 
deputy of Cecil’s, on the other side. It would be but 
that if he went on the second day ; and on the evening 
of the second day the ladies were to return to town. He 
decided to stop in town, and present himself in Mount 
Street during that evening. 

The moment the decision had been arrived at, it as- 
sumed a form that made up for all the past. Bah ! the 
idea of telling a love tale amidst the roar and riot of that 
horrid place, beneath a scorching sun, and surrounded by 
gaping crowds ! True, he had meant to wait, and had 
hoped for the best — for some opening, some chance invi- 
tation which might lead to a twilight spent in Paradise, 
supposing Mrs. St. George, for instance, had proved to 
be a good-natured, hospitable woman, and he had gone 
back with the party to The Lawn ? But this hope had 
faded away during the long, hot, fruitless search, and at 
the close of the day he had felt himself a fool ever to have 
entertained it. The little balcony in Mount Street, 
among the blue pots of field daisies, would do as well as, 
or better than the banks of the Thames. 

So it would, and so it might have done, had the lover 
not been anticipated. 

It was late for some people, early for others — in brief, 
it was past nine o’clock when the announcement of Sir 


A MERE CHILD. 


183 


Frederick Bellenden’s name made Geraldine start from 
the chair into which she had thrown herself to wear out 
the remainder of a wretched day. She had not dreamed 
of his or of any one’s coming in at that hour ; and her 
hair had been unloosed, her hat, gloves, and parasol 
thrown down anywhere, and her handkerchief, wet 
through and through, allowed to drop by her side, as 
she leaned her flushed and tear-stained face upon her 
hand, thinking over all that had taken place. 

Granny had retired for the night, still more worn out 
and exhausted ; for the family gathering had not been a 
success, and both she and Geraldine had issued from it, 
as it were, in disgrace. 

Her two daughters had alike resentfully held her at 
arm’s length. Maria had subjected her to questions and 
comments, Charlotte to innuendoes. She had seen them 
interchange glances now and again on the reception of 
her replies, and had by degrees come to grasp the situa- 
tion in all its details, and to penetrate into the secret of 
the displeasure which she had herself incurred. It had 
become plain that she was now understood to be un- 
favorable to the sisters’ views. It had become equally 
obvious that those views had met with some great and 
unexpected check. 

When the hour for departure had arrived, she and her 
charge had been suffered to leave without any of those 
cheerful prognostications and pleasant words and wishes 
usual on such occasions. There had been no little lov- 
ing attentions and flatteries, and scarcely even a respect- 
able show of response to her own thanks and farewells ; 
instead, there had been an ominous silence, lowering 
looks, and cold kisses — and Cecil had been nowhere to 
be found. 

That had informed her of the whole truth ; and Ger- 
aldine, when tasked, had not even sought to deny it. 


34 


A MERE CHILD. 


Yes, it was as granny had surmised: Cecil, foolish boy, 
had made himself ridiculous and her very angry ; he had 
been very rude; he 

“ Rude ! ” Granny might well open her eyes. She 
had never known Cecil Raymond rude in his life. What 
should he be rude for now ? 

“Because I could not agree with him, and because I 
told him he was a spy and a slanderer,” then had burst 
forth Geraldine, with cheeks aflame ; “ that was why — 
oh, that was why,” she had repeated, her bosom heaving 
at the recollection. 

“ But, my dear, my darling, I do not understand ” — * 
no wonder the poor old lady had been mystified — “ I un- 
derstand that Cecil, poor fellow, for whom I am very 
sorry ” — (“ poor, dear boy, I wish he had held his tongue,” 
in parenthesis) — “ I understand that you cannot care for 
him as he does for you ; but why should you have been 
so — so hasty with him ? Why should you not quietly 
and kindly have refused to listen ” 

“ I did refuse to listen ; but not until he had spoken 
— oh, not until I had heard him say such things — ” 
and upon this the poor child had wept and sobbed afresh, 
and no more had been forthcoming. 

The result was, that granny had gone off to bed, worn 
and weary with sympathizing first on one side and then 
on the other — for it must not be supposed she had no 
feeling for her one and only grandson, nor that she could 
contemplate the probable family broil to follow without 
genuine distress and vexation ; so that she and Geraldine 
had naturally agreed to say no more to each other about 
it that night, but to leave till the morrow all future con- 
siderations. Little did either think that the day’s work 
was not over yet. 

“You are alone?” said Bellenden, glancing round 
quickly. “ Is Mrs. Campbell ” 


A MERE CHILD . 


185 


“ Gone upstairs. We — we have not returned long, 
and she — she did not expect anyone.” Here the speak- 
er’s eye fell on the wet handkerchief, and she stooped to 
pick it up and hide it in her hand. 

“ And you — did you not expect me either ? ” inquired 
he, his voice sinking at once, as he took a chair near 
her. 

No answer ; a slight retrograde movement on her part. 

“ Did you think I could wait another day,” proceeded 
the speaker, in the same significant tone, “ not knowing 
where you had been, nor with whom, nor whether — 
whether you had ever missed me, nor looked for me ? ” 

“ Oh, yes,” said Geraldine, suddenly facing him. 
“Wait ? Oh, yes : very well, I should think — very well, 
indeed. Why not?” she continued, with a hard little 
laugh, reminding him on the instant of the mocking 
fiend who had gibed and taunted him that bright morn- 
ing in Bond Street. “ Oh, Sir Frederick, I think you 
could have waited. You are a patient man. You can 
wait much longer than that for tidings of your friends, 
we all know.” 

(“Angry, by Jove! The best sign in the world!” 
cried Bellenden, exulting, to himself.) Aloud: “Are 
you twitting me with my stupidity in not finding you 
yesterday ? You do not know how dearly I paid for it. 
Where were you ? Where could you have been ? I 
give you my word that I hunted up and down, in and 
out, all over the place, for hours and hours, and all in 
vain, I only gave up when nearly every one had left the 
place.” 

“ I did not mean that,” almost whispered Geraldine, 
for now she was beginning to shake all over. “ I — I— 
why do you say such things?” she burst forth, with 
sudden passion. “ What right have you to say them ? 
How do you dare to presume that it is anything to me 


A MERE CHILD . 


1 86 

whether you seek me or not ? You — -you — I never 
told you to look for me; I never gave you leave. You 
must not — you shall not do it. Understand, sir, that 
I will not have any more of this. I forbid it — I — I ” 

“ Do you forbid this, Geraldine ? ” said he, very gently, 
taking her hand in his. “ Do you forbid my asking for 
this hand, and offering in exchange only my poor heart, 
which is already yours ? I sought you, dear, because I 
loved you. I think you know I love you ; and I think I 
know that you ” 

“That I love you?” cried Geraldine, wildly; “is it 
that which you would say ? You know that ? You 
would tell me that? But you — you are mistaken, Sir 
Frederick Bellenden. I am not quite the child, the fool 
I once was. I — I — Oh, how can you — how can 

you ?” and, unable to articulate more, she could only 

wrench from his the hand he still held, and let loose 
anew the brimming floods which would no longer be re- 
strained. 

“ Who has done this ?” cried he aghast. 

“Who? What do you mean?” 

“This is not your own doing. This is not yourself 
speaking,” proceeded Bellenden, in much agitation. 
“ Some smooth-tongued whisperer has been ” 

“Never mind that — never mind that. He did but tell 
me true, if it has been so ; you have chosen to take it for 
granted that I care for you ” 

“And you do not love — ? But no, you would not 
play me false ” 

“ How am I playing you false ? ” 

“ Look back upon the past few weeks,” he said. “ What 
am I to think ? Have you not given me reason to sup- 
pose — Could I think otherwise than that you saw, un- 
derstood, and returned my feelings for you ? Had you 
meant to reject me — Geraldine, you cannot, you cannot 


A MERE CHILD. 


187 

mean it,” he continued, with increased emotion. “ You 

cannot have been trifling with me ” but the word 

awoke a fatal echo in her heart. 

“Trifling?” she cried, scornfully, “and why not ‘tri- 
fling,’ if it suited me to trifle ? Why should I not have 
my turn ? You thought little enough once of trifling 
with me.” 

“If With you ? ” 

“ You thought I was but a little girl, a child to be 
taken up, and petted, and played with, and— dropped. 
You thought you might say what you chose, do what 
you chose, kiss me if you chose,” and she struck her face 
upon the spot his lips had burned, “ and then — and then 
— no more. I was to think nothing of it, to laugh at it, 
to know that others jested about it : I was only a child, 
you know. What have you to say now, if I have, as you 
call it, ‘ trifled’ with you ? ” 

He was silent — too much amazed for words. 

“ Good heavens ! Why, Geraldine,” he exclaimed at 
length, after a mute pause, during which each had invol- 
untarily drawn back a pace, and stood quickly breathing 
in each other’s faces. “Why, Geraldine, what strange, 
delusion is this ? I — ” he passed his hand over his brow, 
“ I cannot yet understand. Of course, I ought to 
have written, to have — Pshaw 1 that is not what you 
can so deeply have resented ; there must be more. Is it 
possible, then, that I — that you — that anything ever 
passed between you and me in the old days which could 
have been taken in so ill a part that it must needs rise as 
a barrier between us forevermore ? ” 

“ What did pass between us ? Stop where you are,” 
— for he had made a movement toward her.” What did 
pass ? ” 

“ Why, we were companions, friends — we liked to be 
together. I was fond of you, and you — by Heavens ! if 


A MERE CHILD. 


1 88 

I had ever thought — ever imagined — But you cannot 
mean it ” 

“ I — do mean it.” 

“ You cared for me ?” his voice faltered. 

“ I did care.” 

“You? A mere child ! ” 

“ I was no c mere child.’ ” 

“ But you could not have known — it is not possible 
you could have known what love meant. You could 
never have felt ” 

“Not have felt? Not known? Oh, how little, how 
little can you know ?” cried she, weeping afresh. “ Not 
have known, when you yourself had taught me! Not 
have felt — oh, I think I shall never feel again — can never 
feel again as I did then ! You ask me 7iow for my heart ? 
You stole it then. How did 1 get it back ? Only 
through your neglect and utter indifference. But I have 
it now — fast ; never, never to part with it more. No ! 
not now — not again — ” as he once more endeavored to 
speak and to be heard. “ Not again. Once in a life- 
time is enough. Oh, you had it that once — ” here her 
voice was almost lost in convulsive sobs — “ that once,” 
she whispered, “ but — but — a second — time — 7iever ! ” 
and, with a sudden rush, she flew past and vanished from 
his sight, leaving him dumb, motionless, and alone. 


A MERE CHILD. 


189 


CHAPTER XVI. 

CONCLUSION — GRANNY TO THE FRONT. 

u There’s a sigh for ‘ Yes,’ and a sigh for ‘ No,’ 

And a sigh for ‘ I can’t bear it.’ 

Oh, what’s to be done ? Shall we stay or run ? 

Oh, cut the sweet apple and share it.” 

Had she then all this time been but revenging herself? 

Bellenden asked himself the humiliating question a 
thousand times, smarting with shame, disappointment, 
and, worse still, disenchantment. 

Had the girl to whom he had given such a high place 
in his imagination as well as in his heart, been playing 
toward him a part so unworthy ? Had she, whom he 
had all unwittingly, sinned against — for it had been un- 
wittingly, when all was said and done — had this bright, 
beautiful creature, with her noble bearing, and her proud 
scorn of all that w'as false and mean, stooped on his ac- 
count to a vengeance so far beneath her ? 

He could hardly believe it. Had an angel descended 
to soil its wings he could not have felt his faith in good- 
ness, purity, and truth more cruelly shaken. 

Could this have been Geraldine who had just fled from 
him, as though his touch were contamination ? Could 
this have been she who had poured forth such derisive 
taunts, announced such a petty, base, and degrading 
scheme as her own ? Could it have been her sweet face, 
so many a time and oft turned toward him, shy as a 
blushing rosebud, which had now been overspread by 
the angry glow, and whose features had been, alas ! dis- 
torted with a fury of which he had been the object ? 

He felt as if a rough touch had been laid on his 
shoulder, and a rough voice in his ear had bidden him 


190 


A MERE CHILD . 


awake from a fair dream and face a harsh reality. His 
idol had been shattered, and lay in pieces at his feet. 

She, for her part, spent the night in tears. Why make 
a mystery of it ? 

Of course the whole had been Cecil’s work. He had 
contrived, goodness knows how ! to draw his cousin 
apart, and get her to himself at last, on the second day 
of the festival ; and he had then first pleaded his own 
cause, and pleaded, as we know, in vain ; and subse- 
quently, and doubtless with more acrimony than might 
otherwise have been vented, turned his attention toward 
blasting, the hopes of his presumably more successful 
rival. 

He had not meant to order his plan of action on this 
wise. It was to have been thus : Clear the course of 
Bellenden — then walk the course, Raymond. 

But lovers seldom keep to their programmes on such 
occasions, and Cecil at the critical moment had come to 
grief. 

His own wreckage had been a certainty almost from 
the outset ; but he had done himself none the less dam-* 
age in that he had sought to involve Bellenden in his 
ruins. 

It must be supposed that finally this had been appar- 
ent to him. But there is, as every one knows, a certain 
fierce consolation in hitting back, even though each blow 
recoils on the head of the striker ; and Geraldine’s suitor, 
beholding his suit hopelessly rejected, may be pardoned 
if, not being a man of fine character, he had not taken 
the downfall of his hopes quite so well as he should have 
done. 

He had been as unable to bridle his tongue as a woman, 
and, sore from his own wounds, had recklessly delivered 
•as many as he could in return. 

Nothing, he well knew, would hurt the proud-spirited 


A MERE CHILD . 


191 

girl more than any reverting to the old childish folly, 
and accordingly — we are sorry to say it — it had been 
to this that the defeated candidate had turned at 
once. 

A very indifferent tale it had been to hearken to. He 
had been watching his cousin, he had allowed, and been 
very much afraid, very apprehensive and anxious on her 
account. He had hoped against hope that he had been 
mistaken. Not less on her account than on his own (on 
his own he would now say nothing — that was past — and, 
therefore, and only since it was past, was he now free to 
raise a note of warning), but, on her account, he thought 
he really ought now to speak. He must speak as a re- 
lation, as a brother, since she would allow him no nearer 
and dearer title. A certain flighty friend of his — she 
must know to whom he alluded — was now, he feared, 
playing the same game that he had tried on with Geral- 
dine before. All had known this, and had noticed it. 
It did not become him to judge whether or not he would 
this time meet with a like success ; but Geraldine knew, 
Geraldine must remember how her fancy had once 
been caught by Bellenden’s foolish and unmeaning gal- 
lantry — he had got no further. 

So far he had been heard out, since, in her bewilder- 
ment and consternation, she had had no words where- 
with to stop him ; but all at once she had realized that 
her childhood’s romantic dream which had cost her so 
dear, but which she had deemed ail her own, had been, 
and still was, the sport and scoff of others. 

Cecil had exaggerated, perhaps naturally, in saying 
that “all” had known and noticed, but he had certainly, 
in furtherance of his end, been happy in the hint ; it had 
been caught up at once by the sensitive ear on which it 
had fallen, and had been construed into something yet 
further from the truth than was actually the case. 


192 


A MERE CHILD. 


She had been gossiped about, giggled over, smirked 
at — oh ! how terrible. 

Never, never could she hold up her head again among 
those who had made her their jest ; never again could 
she meet Bellenden in their presence, nor hear them pro- 
nounce his name without a shiver. 

As for quietly going on her way, having daily inter- 
course with the relations in Grosvenor Square, meeting 
Cecil going in and out (he had begged that there might 
be no alteration in the usual routine), it was not to be 
thought of. 

The earth had shaken under her feet. She had 
doubted everyone, distrusted everyone, almost hated 
everyone that cruel summer day. A little wisdom, and 
a little common-sense, even a few hours’ repose and time 
to think the matter over, might have put a new face 
upon past and future; but Bellenden had been too pre- 
cipitate ; he had appeared when the storm had been yet 
at its height, and had come in smiling, happy, confident 
• — far, far too confident, to her mind — and he had had 
even a worse time of it than Cecil Raymond. 

So now, what was to be done ? 

Imagine granny’s consternation when, the next morn- 
ing, the headstrong girl, neither calmer nor wiser than 
on the night before, announced her next decision, which 
was that back the two must hie — and that without 
a moment’s breathing space — to the wilds of Inchma- 
rew. 

It was the first week of July, and some of the pleas- 
antest part of the London season was yet to come ; there 
were the garden parties, the suburban fetes, the river ex- 
cursions, the little frolics hither and thither for which no 
time could be found earlier — must all these be sacrificed ? 
And for what ? 

For Inchmarew in July? In July, when grim St. 


A MERE CHILD. 


193 


Swithin holds his cheerless rule in the west country, 
when the crisp freshness of the summer is past, and the 
mellow warmth of autumn is not yet begun ? When 
the young vegetables are over, and the fruit is barely 
ripe ! When no one — actually no one — not the veriest 
waif or stray is yet to be found along the coasts of Ar- 
gyll? 

Poor Mrs. Campbell grew almost tearful over the sub- 
ject, and flushed her prettiest pink demonstrating and 
protesting. She had little anticipated such extreme 
measures. She had thought the Raymond affair might 
be patched up without any great difficulty. It might, it 
probably would, have its disagreeable side ; it might 
produce awkward moments and uncomfortable restraint ; 
but surely it was not of sufficient importance to break 
up their whole tenor of life for the time being. She had 
taken the house for another month, and no one was ex- 
pecting them back at Inchmarew. The rooms would 
not be ready, the repairs not finished, the painters and 
paperers not off the premises. “ Nothing would be pre- 
pared, and it did seem a pity to let such a” — she did not 
exactly say a “ trifle,” but the tone in which she said “ a 
thing as this” implied it — “ it did seem a pity to let such 
a thing as this put out so many people, and disarrange so 
much.” 

Of course, granny vowed and protested, of course her 
darling could not be tormented by Cecil, nor by any of 
his family — Geraldine might trust her for that. Of 
course if Geraldine wished it, she would forbid her 
grandson the house — although that did seem unneces- 
sary, since it was not likely that he would really care to 
come about, in spite of his bravado in begging that no 
difference might be made. That had been Cecil all 
over. His first thought had been to evade the com- 
ments of the world. But even if he did wish to carry 
J 3 


194 


A MERE CHILD. 


this too far, he should not be allowed to disturb his 
cousin’s peace by doing so. 

For herself granny allowed — and the affectionate 
young heart went straight out to her on the spot for the 
words — that, sorry as she was, she would have been still 
more sorry had Cecil’s love-suit ended differently. 

Here Geraldine’s lip began to quiver. Up to this 
point her face had been set as in a vice. “ I felt as if 
everyone were against me yesterday,” she murmured, 
“even you, dear. You — you said so little, and — and 
you seemed so grieved for him.” 

“ I was grieved, and I am grieved ; but,” said the old 
lady, almost fiercely. “ I consider Cecil is a fool all the 
same. He ought to have seen and known long ago — any 
man with an ounce of perception would — that you did 
not care a button for him. He might have seen that 
there was another ” 

“ Wliat ? You , too ? ” And with a great cry, out it all 
came, and everything was explained. 

“ If you had only said so before ! ” And poor granny 
felt as if she could never forgive herself, and cried also, 
and wiped her eyes to ring the bell, and give orders, 
and send messages, and then sat down to her desk to 
write notes and frame excuses without a second’s hesita- 
tion. 

“ We can let it appear among ourselves that it was this 
cousinly affair,” quoth she smartly, “and the world must 
think what it pleases. Nay, it will very likely hardly 
think of us at all ; we shall just be missed for a day, and 
no more, and we shall enjoy the eclat of retiring early, 
as the best people always do retire early from everything. 
It is not worth while to drink the cup of pleasure to the 
dregs.” And so she gave out generally. 

“ My granddaughter and I have had enough,” she said. 
“ I am getting to be an old woman, and cannot stand as 


A MERE CHILD. 


195 


much as I once could ” — (“ I cannot stand two rejected 
proposals in one day,” she mentally specified) — “ and so 
we are off to rest and recruit. We may hope, if all is 
well, to stay longer another year.” 

By the end of the week everything had been adjusted, 
the bills paid, the light surface of the rooms dismantled, 
and most of the servants sent on in front. 

Geraldine was out making a round of “ good-by ” visits, 
as she and her grandmother were themselves to be off 
on the following day, when a visitor was announced to 
Mrs. Campbell, as to whose coming nothing was said to 
anybody else at the time. 

He had evidently known when to call, however, and 
had been expected, although there was with it all a cer- 
tain apprehensiveness in his ring of the door-bell, and 
stealthiness in his step upon the stair, which betokened 
a tread upon enchanted ground. 

“We are quite alone,” said his hostess hastily. 

He murmured some inaudible reply. 

“ My granddaughter has gone out,” proceeded the 
speaker, “ and will not return for an hour or two. She 
has a number of things to do, and people to see, as we 
leave town to-morrow.” 

He bowed in silence. 

“ I think,” continued the old lady, very kindly, “ I 
think that we need not stand on any very great ceremony 
with each other, Sir Frederick Bellenden. You would 
not have come here if you had not wished me to be plain- 
spoken. Shall I, then, tell you at once all I know and 
what I think ? Or will you — ? ” and she looked inquir- 
ingly. 

But it was certain he would not. He had been too 
much exasperated, hurt, and confounded at the first, too 
much cast down subsequently, to have rallied without the 
aid now thrown out ; and, as it was, he remained speech- 


196 


A MERE CHILD. 


less, merely turning on her a dumb, appealing eye, which 
seemed to implore comfort and hope. 

Perish pride. Mrs. Campbell had meant to be proud 
enough and dignified enough to have sustained the honor 
of all the generations defunct of her grandchild’s an- 
cestors ; but what could the benevolent old creature do 
against a handsome gallant who had long ago subjugated 
herself as well as Geraldine (after the proper, respectable, 
grandmotherly fashion), and who now hung upon her lips, 
thought what she thought, saw what she saw, felt what 
she felt ? 

Poor granny had never been so set-up in her life. Bel- 
lenden had not an idea nor an opinion apart from hers ; 
and she was encouraged to tell what she had seen, whis^ 
per what she had suspected, and suggest what should 
next be done, with nothing but the most eager acqui* 
escence on his part. 

Finally, she wound up with a prophecy that all would 
come right yet ; and, thereupon, the despondent and de- 
jected figure who had crept so humbly and cautiously in, 
vanished into thin air, while in its place sat upright a 
broad form, with square shoulders, and courageous and 
undaunted air, prepared for anything, and thirsting to 
display his valor. 

“But, mind, my dear Sir Frederick, do, pray, mind 
this,” urged his counsellor at parting, “ do pray, be care- 
ful. Not a word, not a single word of this interview to 
Geraldine. I know my child. She is hot and sensitive. 
She has the hasty blood of her race. Did she but once 
suspect you had been with me, she would take fire at 
once, and who knows whether we should ever succeed in 
allaying it a second time ? She must not know — must 
never know — at least, I mean until — until — you will 
choose your own time for telling her, of course; but it 
must not be, must not be yet.” 


A MERE CHILD. 


19 7 


“ My dear Mrs. Campbell, you may trust me. And 
now,’’ said Bellenden, with some just emotion, “how 
shall I ever thank you for the service you have done me? 
Had it not been for you, I, too, should have left — I was 
on the point of departure when I received your note — 
and, once gone, should I ever have learned the truth ? I 
tremble to think of it. I should never, of myself, have 
spoken again. No man could, who had been told what 
I had. And how was I to suppose there could be any 
explanation ? Because, you see, she was always so truth- 
ful ” 

“ She is the most truthful child in the world,” cried 
granny, interrupting him ; “ but I think no woman liv- 
ing but would have excused her that one little lie.” 

“ Norman, neither,” said Bellenden, in spirits to laugh. 
“ She has but to own it was one, to be forgiven every- 
thing.” 

“We shall meet, then, ere very long? ’’said the old 
lady, giving him her hand. 

“ Within a few days, I trust.” 

“And — at Inchmarew ?” 

“ At Inchmarew.” 

Granny said that evening that she had really had a 
pleasant day, and was not in the least fatigued ; nor 
would she go early to bed, alleging that she liked the 
cool eventide to sit and think in ; and, accordingly, she 
had her chair brought out and placed in the balcony, 
although the china pots and daisies were gone, and 
there she sat silent and smiling, a little to the wonder 
of some one else, who was in anything but a smiling 
mood. 

AH through the preceding week the temperature in 
Geraldine’s veins had been steadily going down ; every 
morning she had arisen cooler and calmer, and more and 


198 


A MERE CHILD. 


more ready to be persuaded and reasoned with, had there 
been anybody at hand to reason and persuade. 

But the prudent grandmother had seen all and held 
her tongue. 

She had forecast a swift repentance ; but she also 
prophesied a return of the tantrums were the repentance 
forced on apace, and not allowed to work its own end ; 
and, therefore, although it had been no easy thing to do, 
she had put a curb not only on her speech, but on her 
actions, and had by word and act carried out the will of 
her young tyrant. 

Perhaps Geraldine had almost hoped to be remon- 
strated with, and perhaps, had she been so, she might 
have given way ; but granny, with a chuckle, had gone 
on with her preparations. 

The child needed a lesson; and to give her her head at 
this crisis, and let her hang herself on her own rope as it 
were, was incontestably the best thing to be done ; and 
therefore, although the “ poor dear ” really sacrificed self, 
and could not but heave a sigh as she looked round upon 
the still attractive scene, the busy parks and streets, and 
cards upon her plate and mantelpiece ; while in the back- 
ground she had but a rueful vision of Inchmarew Castle, 
cold and solitary, and with the covers only just whipped 
off in the state-rooms — still she held bravely to the role 
she had laid down for herself ; and the only thing she 
had done was to drop Bellenden the furtive line which 
had arrested his departure, and brought him to her side 
at the first convenient opportunity. 

Now she could afford to sit and smile on her balcony. 

Dear old soul ! she found fault with nothing — not 
even with the rain on the Argyllshire hill-tops, although 
it fell in waterspouts on the first evening of their return 
to their Highland home. 

Dismal as was the outlook from her bedroom window, 


A MERE CHILD. 


199 


where she stood awhile to gaze upon the dreary mists 
hanging overhead, and the leaden waste of waters be- 
neath — she scarcely seemed to notice it. One previous 
inquiry had satisfied her ; she had learned that the sum- 
mer boat was running, the boat which touched every 
evening at their own pier, and that had been enough. 

On the other hand, poor little Geraldine was miser- 
able down to the very tips of her fingers, and shivered 
and shuddered, and professed herself abjectly penitent 
for bringing her grandmother back in such an evil hour 
— she had almost said to such an evil place. Inchmarew 
had never before seemed desolate and drear. She could 
not have believed it had she been told, that she could 
ever have looked upon the loved home of her childhood 
with such an ungracious eye. The very servants saw 
that she was unresponsive and out of spirits, and fancied 
she had grown fine and scornful. 

“ This miserable, miserable rain,” she moaned, “ how 
gloomy, how deplorable, it all looks ! And yet I never 
found it gloomy and deplorable before. I laughed at 
Aunt Charlotte when she warned me that it would be 
so. I forgot to tell you, dear, how indignant Aunt 
Charlotte was with me for running away when I went to 
say my ‘good-by’ to her. She said I need not have 
made myself uneasy ; that none of them would ever have 
troubled me ; and that at least the unfortunate affair 
might have been allowed to die out of itself. I got away 
as soon as I could, and left my love for Ethel and Alicia. 
They will not come here this autumn, that is one thing. 
Oh, it is something to feel I am done with the Ray- 
monds, and Aunt Maria, and all of them, for the pres • 
ent ; that I can breathe freely, and not be in agonies lest 
I should meet them at every turning of a street ; but 
still — but still — ” and she drew a long, weary, despair- 
ing breath. 


200 


A MERE CHILD . 


Now the curious thing was, that in exact proportion 
as the grandchild’s spirits sank did those of the grand- 
mother rise. 

She prattled and gossiped, inquired about this and 
that, spread about the little novelties for the rooms 
which she had acquired in London ; arranged a succes- 
sion of autumn house-parties, consisting of the different 
new acquaintances with whom it was desirable to keep 
up friendly intercourse, and who had said they should 
presently be in the north, and altogether seemed to have 
no sympathy with, nor to make any allowance for, Ger- 
aldine’s depression. 

“ You seem very merry to-night, grandmamma.” 
(When the “poor dear” was entitled “grandmamma” 
she knew what it meant.) “ You seem quite rejoiced to 
be here, in this dull place, on this melancholy evening,” 
pursued the speaker, fretfully. “ I am sure I am very 
glad you like it. It is a good thing anyone can be 
merry,” shuddering. “ Even fires ! ” and she cast a scorn- 
ful glance at the blazing logs, thinking of the warmth 
and sunlight of the south. 

“ The fire is needed certainly,” observed granny, no 
whit abashed. “ A fire always looks cheerful, and my 
feeling is to have one whenever you can bear it.” 

“ At least it seems to have made you cheerful; I can- 
not say that it has had the same effect on me,” replied 
the despondent young lady. “ I never felt less cheerful 
in my life.” 

“ You want a companion, my dear,” slyly. 

“ Humph ! ” 

“ Miss Corunna would come, I dare say.” 

“ Oh, pray do not ask her, granny, pray don’t,” in great 
alarm. “ I feel as if I could not bear Miss Corunna, nor 
anyone else just now. I love Miss Corunna — but I don’t 
want her, indeed I don’t ! I only want to be let alone. 


A MERE CHILD. 


201 


I shall be all right soon. By to-morrow, I dare say. 
Dear,” with a swift return to gentle tenderness, “ dear, I 
am veiy selfish. Try to forgive me. You know I am 
unhappy ; but I ought not to let you suffer for it, dear, 
good, kind granny, that you are,” and the evening ended 
in each other’s arms. 

“ By to-morrow, indeed ! ” whispered granny to herself, 
tears and laughter struggling with each other in her 
bosom. “ By to-morrow, my sweet Geraldine ? Yes, 
indeed, I can well believe there will be another face by 
to-morrow.” 

For she knew by this time that all was right, and that 
the magician who was to transform cloud and mist, de- 
jection and gloom, into sunshine and gladness, was 
already at his post, and only awaiting that morrow’s 
dawn to begin his delightful task. 

The next morning Geraldine was missing at noontide. 

“ Gone off to the burnside, ma’am, to her old place 
beneath the waterfall where she used to fish,” cheerfully 
explained the white-headed domestic, who read in this a 
return to a happier mood than had characterized the 
evening before. “ She did not take her rod, nor yet ask 
for Donald ; but she’s there all the same, for Hector 
here saw her cross the road, and away up through the 
birken wood.” 

“I think,” said the- lady shortly after, when repeating 
this to a third person who had walked up from the Ferry 
Inn, where he had managed to endure the night, though 
it had not been an agreeable one — “ I think Sir Fred- 
erick, you know the place. It is somewhere near that 
waterfall that we hear now,” for they were standing out- 
side the house as she spoke — “of course I can send some 
one to show you the way, but — ” he was off almost ere 
he could repudiate the idea. 

Nothing could have been better. Geraldine in her own 


202 


A MERE CHILD. 


enchanted nest of fern and heather, in the spot wherein 
he had first beheld her, the spot whereupon he had won 
his first triumphs. Could he have wished for better 
omen now ? 

And there she was ! 

He did not call her, as he drew near. She was stand- 
ing on the self-same ledge of slippery rock whereon he 
had startled her that afternoon three years ago, and stand- 
ing so near the edge that he durst not risk startling her 
again. 

He was almost afraid to move, or to breathe — and 
it seemed ages ere she turned, and slowly and sorrow- 
fully, as it seemed, moved with downcast eyes toward 

him. 

At length she was close by his side on the confines of 
the long, rank, dripping grass, and then one word rang 
out bold and strong — “ Geraldine ! ” 

Geraldine did not scream, nor faint, nor fall this time. 
She only stood quite still, while the color slowly left her 
cheek, her blue eyes dilated, and her lips fell apart. 

Who was this ? Who spoke ? What did he there ? 

Was he — was she — were they both — where were they, 
and what did it all mean ? 

She swayed gently forwards and once again found her- 
self clasped in the same strong arms that had held her in 
the self-same spot before. 

But— the resemblance went no further. 

“ I shall- not let you go this time,” whispered a voice 
in her ear. “ I have you fast ; and, Geraldine, I will 
know, I will know the truth at last. You lied to me in 
London — oh, my darling, my darling, you did ; I know 
it, I am sure of it, and now — there — there, don’t weep so 
bitterly — or if you will, let me kiss away the tears. 
Geraldine, I love you, and 1 must love you whether you 
will or no ; be generous and forgive, and let us both be 


A MERE CHILD. 


\ 


203 


h a ppy. Nay, don’t hide your face ” — but he found the 
way to it presently. 

She could not struggle with him — could not choose but 
hearken to him — could not but be happy in her cage. 

And Bellenden knew his ground by this time, and was 
very sure that half measures would be productive of only 
half content. 

Before he left that damp and delightful (but sadly 
rheumatic) spot, he had obtained all he wanted, the fair 
hand that lay in his had been promised him, the heart 
pressed to his own had been allowed to be his already, 
and he had obtained forgiveness for all the past. 

And the only word — or about the only word — that had 
been dropped out on the other side, had found vent in a 
murmur so soft that it had been almost inaudible. 
“ Still, you know, I do think — I do think that you 
shouldn’t — shouldn’t shouldn’t — have quite — quite treat- 
ed me as if I had been a mere child.” 

“ No, I shouldn’t,” acknowledged the happy lover, 
ready to acknowledge anything. “ Shall I promise I will 
never do so any more ? ” 


THE END. 





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MOSTETTEM’S 

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HAS FOR 35 YEARS BEEN 

Adopted by Physicians and Invalids 

AS A REMEDY FOR 

Indigestion, Dyspepsia, _ v 
Fever and Ague. Malaria, 
Neuralgia, Rheumatism, 
General Debility, 
And other KINDRED DISEASES, 

AS CONFIRMED BY 

THOUSANDS OF TESTIMONIALS IN 
OUR POSSESSION. 

Ask your druggist for it, and take none but 
HOSTETTER’S STOMACH BITTERS. 




•GTTttlEl 


PAMCHE ! 


BY USING THE GENUINE 

Dr. C. McLane’s 

LIVER PILLS 

PRICE, 25 CENTS. 

FOR SALE BY ALL DRUGGISTS. 

side wrapper from a box of the 
genuine Dr. C. McLANE’S Cele- 
brated Liver Pills, with your 
address, plainly written, and we 
will Bend you, by return mail, a 
magnificent package of Chromatic 
and Oleographic Cards- ^ggagaa 

FLEMING BROS. 

PITTSBURGH, PA. 


THE 



Jacksos Corset Waist, 

THE 

THE GREAT REFORM GARMENT 

OF THE AGE, 

As Shapely as a Regular Corset. 

AS A HEALTH GARMENT IT STANDS PRE-EMINENT. 



The rapid increase in sales is a sure guarantee to each lady of its merits. 
After a week’s trial, if not satisfactory, the money will be refunded. Ask your 
merchants for them or send the Jackson Corset Co., Jackson, Mich., $1.25 for 
Sample and Price-List. Made in Sateen, Silesia, Flannel, and Gauze— Button 
or Steel Front. Canvassers wanted. 

Hundreds of ladies have written : “ Am more than pleased, will wear n<$ 
other.” Merchants say: "The Jackson Corset Waist sales exceed any other 
Corset in stock.” Try them. Our Baker Waist for Children, our Misses’ Cor* 
Bet, our Summer Gauze Ladies’ Corset, beat the world. 

Jackson Corset Co., Jackson, Midi. 



The treatment of many thousands of 
cases of those chronic weaknesses and 
distressing 1 ailments peculiar to females, 
at the Invalids’ Hotel and Surgical In- 
stitute, Buffalo, N. Y., has afforded a 
vast experience in nicely adapting and 
thoroughly testing remedies for the 
cure of woman’s peculiar maladies. 

Dr. Pierce’s Favorite Prescrip- 
tion is the outgrowth, or result, of this 
great and valuable experience. Thou- 
sands of testimonials received from pa- 
tients and from physicians who have 
tested it in the more aggravated and 
obstinate cases which had baffled their 
skill, prove it to be the most wonderful 
remedy ever devised for the relief and 
cure of suffering women. It is not re- 
commended as a “cure-all,” but as a 
most perfect Specific for woman’s 
peculiar ailments. 

As ,a powerful, invigorating 

tonic it imparts strength to the whole 
system, and to the uterus, or womb and 
its appendages, in particular. For over- 
worked, “worn-out,” “run-down,” de- 
bilitated teachers, milliners, dressmak- 
ers, seamstresses, “shop-girls,” house- 
keepers, nursing mothers, and feeble 
women generally, Dr. Pierce’s Favorite 
Prescription is the greatest earthly boon, 
being unequalled as an appetizing cor- 
dial and restorative tonic. It promotes 
digestion and assimilation of food, cures 
nausea, weakness of stomach, indiges- 
tion, bloating and eructations of gas. 

As a soo tiling and strengthen- 
ing nervine, “Favorite Prescription ” 
is unequalled and is invaluable in allay- 
ing and subduing nervous excitability, 
irritability, exhaustion, prostration, hys- 
teria, spasms and other distressing, nerv- 
ous symptoms commonly attendant upon 
functional and organic disease of the 
womb. It induces refreshing sleep and 
relieves mental anxiety and despond- 
ency. ~ _ 

Dr. Pierce’s Favorite Prescrip- 
tion is a legitimate medicine, 
carefully compounded by an experienc- 
ed and skillful physician, and adapted 
to woman’s delicate organization. It is 
purely vegetable in its composition and 


perfectly harmless In Its effects in any 
condition of the system. * 

“Favorite Prescription” is a 
positive cure for the most compli- 
cated and obstinate cases of leucorrhea, 
or • whites,” excessive flowing at month- 
ly periods, painful menstruation, unnat- 
ural suppressions, prolapsus or falling 
of the womb, weak faiCk, “female weak- 
ness,” anteversion, ref.ro version, bearing- 
down sensations, chronic congestion, in- 
flammation and ulceration of the womb, 
inflammation, pain and tenderness in 
ovaries, accompanied with internal heat. 

In pregnancy, “ Favorite Prescrip- 
tion” is a “mother’s cordial,” relieving 
nausea, weakness of /stomach and other 
distressing symptoms common to that 
condition. If its use is kept up in the 
latter months of gestation, it so prepares 
the system for delivery as to greatly 
lessen, and many times almost entirely 
do away with the suilerings of that try- 
ing ordeal. 

“ Favorite Prescription,” when 

taken in connection with the use of 
Dr.- Pierce’s Golden Medical Discovery, 
and small laxative doses of Dr. Pierce’s 
Purgative Pellets (Little Liver Pills), 
cures Liver, Kidney and Bladder dls; 
eases. Their combined use also removes 
blood taints, and abolishes cancerous 
and scrofulous humors from the system. 

Treating tlie Wrong Disease.— 
Many times women call on their family 
physicians, suffering, as they imagine, 
one from dyspepsia, another from heart 
disease, another from liver or kidney 
disease, another from nervous exhaus- 
tion or prostration, another with pain 
here or there, and in this way they all 
present alike to themselves and their 
easy-going and indifferent, or over-busy 
doctor, separate and distinct diseases, 
for which he prescribes his pills and 
potions, assuming them too be such, 
when, in reality, they are all only symp- 
toms caused by some womb disorder. 
The physician, ignorant of the cause of 
suffering, encourages his practice until 
large bills are made. The suffering pa- 
tient gets no better, but probably worse 
by reason of the delay, wrong treatment 
and consequent complications. A prop- 
er medicine, like Dr. Pierce’s Favorite 
Prescription, directed to the cause would 
have entirely removed the disease, there- 
by dispelling all those distressing symp- 
toms, and instituting comfort instead of 
prolonged misery. 

“Favorite Prescription” is the 
only medicine for women sold, by drug- 
gists, under a positive guarantee* 
from the manufacturers, that it will 
give satisfaction in every cc.%e, or money 
will be refunded. This guarantee has 
been printed on the bottle-wrapper, and 
faithfully carried out for many ycara. 
Iuirge bottles (100 doses) $1.00, or 
six bottles for $5.00. c 

j Send ten cents in stamps for Dr. 
Pierce’s large, illustrated Treatise (160 
pages) on Diseases of Women. Address, 
World’s Dispensary Medical Association, 

' 668 MAIN STBBkT, BUFFALO, N. T, 




'The best for the Complexion. . . “A balm for the Skin.* 
The most economical; it wears to thinness of a wafer*! 




















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library of congress 


000EE 715L00 




